 
## FIDDLEBACK

A Novel by Jeff Vrolyks

KDP Kindle Edition

Copyright 2015 Jeff Vrolyks

### Prologue

Mr. Thompson locked the classroom door behind him with Mrs. Cuthbert standing at his back with an appraising stare. She wondered what a young Mrs. Thompson might look like, then wondered if Freddy Thompson did the same to her. Granted, she was on the wrong side of her twenties and he probably still wore the same clothes as he did at his alma mater, Cal State Sacramento, but she liked to think she was still in his league. Freddy pocketed his keys, turned to a warm grin from the neighboring Jameson grade-school teacher. With only three months employment under his belt, Freddy still marveled that the school grounds could be as desolate and muted as they were at the quitting time of 3:30, just thirty quiet and sacred minutes after the bell rang and two-dozen knee-highs shrieked and wailed exuberantly, egressed through the door to become ghosts of Freddy's imagination for the next sixteen hours.

They coursed the covered walkway side by side through the tightly knit complex of classroom units toward the parking lot.

"What's the good word, Beth?"

"Oh, you know: another day of washing paste out of a child's hair. The usual."

"Jacob again?" Freddy asked.

"Surprisingly, no. Not this time. A little booger named Wilhelm. Regal name, hell-on-wheels boy. His parents probably adore the hours he's my ward."

They passed the admin office. Up ahead was the final cluster of buildings. A grassy field (a popular recess destination) lay ahead. Before it stood a double row of orange fiberglass bench-tables with a row of maple trees shading them. Blocked from sight behind Mrs. Edward's classroom was another popular recess destination: the sand box. A playground. It was a smaller, secondary playground, only ten yards by ten yards, with two sets of two swings and a teeter-totter, enclosed by railroad ties infamous for giving kids splinters.

Beth Cuthbert was asking the young teacher about his most topical student—problem child is how he had described Maeve, though he maintained that the jury was still out as to the source of the problem—when they heard the sweet song of the knee-high. It was coming from the sand box still invisible to them. The lively tune was a nursery rhyme, Oh My Darlin' Clementine. Freddy suspected he knew who was singing it. He ceased listening to Beth, lengthened his stride. He'd been meaning to have a one-on-one with the child to ask the difficult question, but had been too cowardly to do so. The many times he told himself that today was the day (usually early morning) became a postponement until a stronger case could be made for child abuse (usually just before the final bell rang). He had observed other children staying behind after school to squeeze a little more fun out of the playground before their summoning home by the long arm of the parental law, but rarely Maeve Marlowe. And of all the students at Jameson Elementary, Maeve probably had the soundest reason to avoid being home. Or so Freddy suspected. The jury was still out. As Stephen King wrote, we fool ourselves so often we could do it for a living.

The covered walkway delivered them to the open outdoors, the mostly-sunny day. Beth was just noticing that she'd lost the young teacher's attention, who was now focused on the orator of the century-old nursery rhyme.

"Though in life I used to hug her, now she's dead I'll draw the line. Oh my darling, oh my darling, oh my _daaarling_ Clementine!"

Freddy had advanced a full step ahead of Beth when Maeve entered his view.

A sharp gasp. He stopped so abruptly that Beth collided into him.

Maeve Marlowe was a sprightly little thing of six or seven. Her walnut brown hair was worn cinched back on the days she wasn't wearing it down as a veil over her fair skinned neck. Her incessant smiling was as unconditional as it was sincere. Eyes were her most characteristic trait, and were as unique as they were breath-taking: cobalt blue with a fiery ring of amber around the iris, as if the blue iris were eclipsing the sun (the amber ring being the sun's fiery corona). She wore faded jeans and a San Francisco Giants sweatshirt. Freddy had never observed Maeve wearing anything that exposed her limbs, and estimated that come summer time she'd still be wearing winter attire, a thought that angered Freddy to no end.

Maeve saw her teacher and teacher's friend and ceased her song. Her smile broadened, lips separated, merciless white teeth gleamed against the token sunny February day. Maeve held tightly a butcher knife.

* * *

The knife was enshrouded in sand dust, save for the glimmering streaks of silver where a youth's finger had touched. It lay conspicuously on the fibrous orange bench-table between the concerned teachers and child. Maeve's smile was a lesser one, but her fondness and trust in Mr. Thompson gave her little reason to be unnerved. Her gaze jumped from him to her, her to him. "Am I in trouble?" she asked.

"No, you're not in trouble." Freddy looked nervously over his shoulder.

"Sweetheart, where did you get this?" Beth said with a gesture at the large knife.

"Am I in trouble, Mrs. Cuthbert?"

They insisted she wasn't. Freddy urged her to answer Mrs. Cuthbert's question.

"I found it at the playground. That one. Under the sand." The liveliness drained out of her at the speed of a thought. Her bright Cobalt eyes gazed down somberly. "You're going to tell my parents, aren't you?"

Beth began an inquiry: Freddy touched her arm and said let me handle this. She nodded. He leaned forward, fixed an earnest and sympathetic stare at the girl who appeared as if her future lied in the answer to her question.

"We're not going to tell your parents," he said. "You have my word."

Maeve was less than assured.

"I cross my heart and hope to die," Freddy said, crossing his chest, "I won't tell your parents. Okay?"

Maeve grinned, perhaps more show than sincere. Do children Maeve's age smile measuredly? Freddy considered the sanctity of pre-adolescent innocence to be in its unbridled honesty and self-expression. Too young to wear the masks inevitably developed at puberty. The masks of _Who I want you to think I am_ , and _How I want you to think I feel about that_.

"What were you going to do with the knife?" Freddy asked.

"I was just playing with it. I'm not allowed to touch the ones at home. If I knew I wasn't supposed—"

"It's okay, sweetheart," he interrupted. "Let's forget about the knife. I'll dispose of it and nobody will hear another word about it. Sound good?" She nodded enthusiastically. "But only if you answer a couple questions honestly. If you don't, I might have to call them."

"I'll answer. Do you promise?"

"I promise." Again, Freddy crossed his chest. "Why aren't you at home?"

"Mom said stay here till five." She angled her wrist to show Freddy her Care Bears watch. "It's only 3:30. I didn't do anything wrong."

"Why did she tell you that?" Beth asked. "Is that normal for her to want you to come home late?"

"Sometimes I go to the park till five. They need their Mommy-Daddy time sometimes. Who am I to deny them that?"

Freddy wondered how many times this girl's parents had said just that. It was a reflex answer, probably word for word what they had chided her with before. He asked her how things were at home.

"Good."

"You've had several absences, and for days at a time."

"Mom said to. I wanted to go to school."

Beth and Freddy straightened their postures. "Why didn't she want you to go?" he asked. "You weren't sick?"

Maeve looked at their hungry eyes. Hungry for a tattle. "I was. Sick. I was sick."

"I don't think you were sick. Honey, this is hard for me to just come out and ask, but do your parents ever hurt you?"

Maeve shook her head. Freddy noticed that she looked away before shaking her head. "When kids do something bad," Freddy continued, "it's normal for their parents to punish them. Grounding, no video games, no TV. How are you punished?"

"Grounded. No video games. No TV."

Beth had an idea. "Most kids, even me when I was your age, get spanked when they do something bad. But only when they deserve it. Sometimes with a belt, sometimes a wooden spoon, sometimes with their hands. It happens. Doesn't it, Maeve?"

Staring vacantly at the knife, she squeaked out a no tinier than the girl uttering it.

"I guess I have to call your folks and tell them you were playing with this large knife," Freddy said regretfully. "The deal was for honesty. You're not being honest."

"Please don't call them," she pleaded desperately. "Please don't call them, Mr. Thompson." Water formed in the corners of her eyes.

"One last chance for honesty. Do they ever hurt you?"

"If I say yes," she said, and the first tear rolled down her cheek, "you're going to tell them I told you."

"And what will happen then?"

"I'll be in red trouble."

"Red?" Freddy and Beth said in unison.

Maeve's eyes blinked wide. "Big! I said big!"

Beth asked Maeve to stay put for a moment, signaled her counterpart for a word alone. Thirty feet from the girl whose head was buried in her folded arms on the table, Beth said, "Oh my dear Lord. Poor thing. We have to do something."

"I know," Freddy said with the grim realization of what needed to be done and the fallout it would bring, namely on Maeve. "What do you propose?"

"Let's talk to Harvey," the school's principal, "see what he advises."

* * *

Maeve Marlowe sat at her bedroom desk, legs treading air under her chair. She was reading Nathaniel Hawthorne's Scarlet Letter. Granted, she knew almost none of the words, but as always she looked the part, and what more could her parents ask for? She paid no attention to the phone ringing in a distant room. She remembered the kitten she had encountered on the walk to school that morning, smiled with hopes of getting to pet it again soon. Hopefully it would be by the Anderson's front yard again tomorrow. Its long gray fur was the softest on earth, she judged. It meowed the quietest she'd ever heard from a cat. She wished she could have another pet, one to replace the last one. A kitten this time.

The door thrust open. She knew their look well. Too well.

Red Trouble.

### Chapter 1

" _Maeve Minnow, precious as thee be, lend me a favor, I'm yours eternally."_

Maeve bolted upright in bed, clutching her blankets. "Who said that?"

" _In the valley of the barren, seek me. In the wasteland it stands, a tree."_

"I don't understand. This is a dream."

" _I am yours, you are mine. In the soil is my release, the undoing of time. Save me."_

"Mom!"

A short moment later the door opened. A thick silhouette asked peevishly what her problem was.

"There's someone in my room!"

"You had a nightmare. Go back to sleep."

"Could you turn the light on? I think it's under the bed."

"Do you want a spanking? Go to sleep, there's nothing under your bed."

"Please, Mom? I wouldn't ask if it were a dream. Please?"

Her mother called for Luke over her shoulder. "Your daughter is acting up!"

"No, I'm sorry, Mom. Don't get Dad. I'll go back to sleep."

"Are you going to behave?"

"I promise."

"Good. Now get to sleep. We're leaving early tomorrow. The last thing I need is a bratty kid who didn't get enough sleep."

Behind the larger, a thinner silhouette appeared. "What's the matter? Is she having another nightmare?"

"Wouldn't you know it? Ten-years-old and still believes in the boogeyman. I took care of it." She closed the door. The room returned to the shadows of deep night once again.

" _Maeve Minnow, precious as thee be, lend me a favor, I'm yours eternally."_

"Go away!" Maeve roared, though she did so in a whisper, lest her mother be alerted. She pulled the blanket up over her head, covered her ears and sang quietly. "There's a hole in the bucket, dear Liza, dear Liza, there's a hole in the bucket dear Liza, there's a hole. Then fix it dear Henry, dear Henry, dear Henry, then fix it dear Henry, then fix it."

" _In the soil, in the barrens, excavating for a time, dwelt a miner forty-niner and his servant Clementine."_

Maeve joined in, "Oh my darling, oh my darling, oh my darling, Clementine. Thou art lost and gone forever, dreadful sorry, Clementine." She withdrew her hands from her ears to listen.

" _In a churchyard on a hillside where the flowers grow and twine, there grow roses amongst the posies, on the grave of Clementine."_

"In my dreams she still doth haunt me, robed in garments soaked in brine; though in life I used to hug her, now she's dead I'll draw the line. Oh my darling, oh my darling, oh my _da-aarling_ Clementine."

" _Past the churchyard on a hillside where the flowers grow and twine, amongst the wasteland there's an Oak standing on the grave of Clementine."_

Maeve hummed the chorus and settled into a deep comfort. Soon she grew too sleepy to sing, and fell asleep.

" _Help me."_

### Chapter 2

It was the kind of sunny spring morning that inspired poetry. Maeve was drawing on her notepad when the station wagon pulled off the main road onto a crude dirt road. It cut through a meadow of devil-grass and budding yellow and white flowers, and continued for a curious stretch before it dead-ended at the foot of a grassy knoll, where an Oldsmobile and Cadillac were parked. Topping the low hill was a rudimentary wood-plank shack that may or may not have been a vagrant's domicile. There were no windows, the roof flat. A three car garage may have outsized it.

Luke parked the wagon beside the pair of pollen-dusted cars. The doors swung open. Mother ordered Maeve to come along and bring her book. She snatched her Tale of Two Cities novel, notepad and pencil, and slid off the vinyl bench seat to the lush grass. Her mom saw the notepad and gave her a look, the one that meant business. The notepad was hastily returned to the wagon.

The three lumbered up the knoll's beaten path to the muffled conversations of adults inside the shack. A single door distinguished the dwelling from perhaps the world's largest shipping crate. It stood open.

"Sit down somewhere and read," said her portly mother. "Don't wander off and I don't want to hear a peep."

Maeve nodded. She sat on a clearing of flattened grass beside a clump of tall grass reeds growing against the crude structure. With a sigh she opened the book to a dog-eared page. The door closed with a thud. She stretched her legs clad in jeans out in front of her, placed the book on her lap and leaned back against her locked arms. She scoped out her environment. The place was pretty, she thought, aside from the house-thing. The flowers especially. The mild breeze carried with it hints of what the flowers (were they daisies?) might smell like if she applied herself. A bird cawed its suspicion at Maeve from a nearby tree. Fair-weather clouds scudded lazily across the late-morning sky.

The door grated open on its rusty hinges. A motherly head peeked through the opening and saw that Maeve was doing as instructed; satisfied, mother retreated back inside.

"Oh my darlin', oh my darlin', oh my darlin' Clementine," Maeve sang.

" _Maeve Minnow, precious as thee be, lend me a favor, down by the tree."_

"You," she said contemptuously. "Who's saying that? Where are you?"

" _Your friend, my sweet Minnow, your friend. The other side of the hill is where you ought to be."_

"No way, Jose. I'll get my hide tanned for sure."

" _Place your faith in me now and for eternity, and I promise that you will be forever safe. Leave now and they won't learn of your adventure. It is time."_

"Why should I have faith in you? I don't know who you are. Show yourself and maybe I'll go." She got up and scanned the area. The grass was tall. Was he hiding in the grass?

" _I wish I could, but you first have to help me at the tree. Help me and I'll show you a neat trick. How would you like those spankings to stop once and for all?"_

"You can't do that. I wish."

" _Ye with so little faith. What have you to lose? The grown-ups are busy and have already forgotten about you. But me, on the other hand, I will never forget you. Come help me."_

"It better not be far."

### Chapter 3

Maeve descended the backside of the low hill through the high grass, collecting flowers along the way. A yellow one here, a white one there. She sniffed one of each and decided the white smelled better. She discarded the yellows and purposed to pick only white flowers—daisies they were, she was almost sure of it. The hill leveled off into a vast dirt hardpan. An overwhelming expanse of lifeless barren land. She glanced over her shoulder to contrast the severity between the two landscapes. It was like seeing the on-location sets of The Sound of Music and The Good The Bad and The Ugly butt up against each other. As far as the eye could see was flat and dead, all the way to the horizon which seemed like a billion miles away.

The dirt hardpan was cracked, innumerable little fissures that reminded Maeve of her bedroom window after having kicked a soccer ball from the front yard into it. She hoped this little act of mischief would have a better outcome than did that one. One thing was certain, if she got caught it would have precisely the same outcome. She felt a phantom pain steal over the back of her legs and butt. She walked at a comfortable pace.

In the shimmering horizon she descried what appeared to be the only survivor amongst this wasteland: a tree. "That must be it." She considered herself to be safely distanced enough from the shack to risk raising her voice. "Can you hear me?"

No response.

She persevered along the cracked ground, occasionally breathing in her tuft of daisies. The sun was now so high that she cast no shadow. She had been walking for twenty-three minutes according to her wrist-watch, and was exhausting herself thoroughly. She scaled back her pace a tick. Maybe there'd be a bigger fire in her belly if she had eaten oatmeal for breakfast, but a half bowl of Cheerios is what was given to her. The tree wasn't far, another five minutes or so should do it.

She plucked the petals from her flowers one by one. "He loves me, he loves me not." She didn't let a little thing like who loved her interfere with the game, but felt the outcome was nonetheless important.

After two he-loves-me-not and one he-loves-me, she became aware of a nasty odor. Not like the kind her dad often created in the bathroom, but the kind that comes from long-forgotten food in one of her many bedroom hiding places (usually found after being sent to bed without supper). Maeve regretted that she had plucked away half of her flowers as she buried her nose in the remaining three. She hastened her pace to sooner put this all behind her, not sure what 'this' was, exactly.

It was an oak tree. She knew that much. The neighbors had one in their front yard, though it was tiny compared to this behemoth. It had to have been as old as Moses himself. Low hanging branches were as thick as her mother's waist and longer than her classroom. It was a grand old giant, furrowed and hardened with age, but also possessed the youth of a springtime bounty of lush green leaves. Standing beside the enormous trunk and staring straight up, she could see none of the sky's blue, nor the top of the tree, and didn't doubt that if she was at the top she'd be able to see God in person. At the very least an angel playing a harp like in the cartoons she was seldom allowed to watch on Saturday mornings.

"Okay, I'm here. Now what?" No response. _"Hello?"_ A breath of wind stirred the leaves. "Are you kidding me? You make me walk all this way and then decide to stop talking? That's so mean!" She stuffed the daisies in her jeans pocket and pulled her shirt up over her nose. "Fine, I'm going back."

She then spied a dark spot near the base of the tree. She squinted at it, then moved to investigate.

It was a muddy blotch the size of a ketchup cap, utterly out of place in this arid nothingness. She knelt down, touched it. "Is this what stinks?" She wondered. A wet finger to her nose answered with an emphatic No way, Jose. Quite the contrary, it was unexpectedly pleasant. It was a familiar odor, but darned if she could recall what it was. It was a much appreciated scent after choking on that putrid stench.

She dabbed some muck water under both nostrils and took in a deep breath through her nose. "Mmm, yummy." She swiped her finger across the wetness a few more times and smeared it just below the neck-line of her shirt, then under her sleeves. Satisfied, she allowed her curiosity to get the better of her and work that little bakery-fresh mud hole for enlightenment. "It's elementary, my dear Watson," she intoned. "What we have here is a Constantinople Flux Capacitor, or CFC, breaking the mud surface for a breath of fresh air." She got on all fours and adjusted her imaginary magnifying glass to better see the CFC. "Watson, if you don't start pulling your weight around here, I'm going to have to give you a right good firing. Me being infantly"—was infantly the right word? She thought yes, it sounded right—"infantly smarter than you is no excuse for your silence." She scrabbled at the dirt around the hole. It was rock hard and would've laughed at her if had the opposable thumbs required to laugh. She giggled at the thought.

"Something to dig with..." She scanned her environment. "Survey says! Ding! Dirt, dirt, and more dirt. Watson, you're fired. Scram. Go drink some tea."

The tree boughs were just beyond her reach. She hadn't a notion what she'd do if they weren't. It would take Paul Bunyan two pints of elbow grease to steal a branch away from this burly sucker. "Could use a little help, Mr. Voice! Am I supposed to dig? Just because I turned ten last month doesn't mean I know everything. Yet."

She sat on her haunches and lit the tobacco in her imaginary pipe, stroked her chin contemplatively. With her pinky she raked back the brown sludge from the hole. A single air bubble mysteriously surfaced from it. "What in the good Lord's name?" She stuck the tip of her finger inside and wriggled it around; then plunged down to the hilt, where she was dealt a nasty sting at her fingertip. She withdrew from the hole uttering a curse-word she had made up, assessed the damage.

Initially it was nothing but a mucky finger. A pinpoint of blood broke through the muck. "No, no, no, don't do that. Nuh-uh, don't do that." Her finger didn't mind her: a pinpoint became a drop of blood. Then, like a storm cloud hovering idly by until you finish washing the car, it poured. Blood spiraled down her finger like a candy cane.

The blood seemed to all be coming from her head: she felt dizzy. Mindlessly she wiped her finger on her pants. An ominous red streak blazed across her right thigh. She hissed at the red streak. There would be a little talk about that on the drive home—the check was in the mail, so to speak. But that worry was short lived and replaced with a different kind of fear: the fear of blood. A curse word in its own right. It was borderline gushing and even Watson knew she wasn't good with bleeding. She'd take a dozen beltings over a needle prick.

She rolled onto her back and stared up at the giant's wrinkled arms, feeling the dizziness pervade her like sleeping-venom from the bite of a mystical snake. "It's okay, it's okay, it's okay," she chanted. "It's only a little finger-prick, not much different from the shots you get at CVS every flu season. Stop being a stupid baby and be okay with blood. You'd better get use to bleeding, missy, because... if Mom's right... when you're a little older... you're going..."

Maeve dreamt that she was in her bedroom and was elated to find her carpet had grown little itty-bitty daisies that didn't smell like daisies, but instead smelled bakery fresh and superior to any carpet flower she'd ever known. But they tasted... well, they tasted like blood.

### Chapter 4

"Rise and shine, li'l Miss Minnow."

Maeve opened her eyes, took a moment to remember where she was. East Jesus, as Joey from class would say. She sat up and squinted at the noticeably yellower sunlight, ripening sunlight. Behind her the oak tree threw down a mile long shadow over the hardpan that might have been pointing to where she'd be getting her beating later. In the shadow stood the owner of the voice. He who had spoken to her.

"Who are you?" she asked in awe.

"I'm your newest and bestest friend!" he replied beamingly. "That's who I am!" He leaned a shoulder against the enormous tree trunk, crossed his goat-like legs.

_I'm dreaming. Got to be. Nothing on God's green earth looks like that._ He was a cute little thing, though. Six inches or so shorter than her, putting him at about four feet tall, with a chubby baby face, dark eyes, pert nose, and a tall fluff of charcoal hair with long sideburns clearing his jaw. Shirtless. Naked, actually. Hair that reminded Maeve of the neighbor's German Shepherd coated his lower half, from inny to ankle. His chest was that of a young boy's, hairless and flat. And those feet!

"What's wrong with you?" There was no attempt to sound anything other than repulsed.

"Like them?" He turned a leg, showed her the underside of his foot. Her jaw dropped, eyes gaped. "It's a real chore going shoe shopping, as you could imagine."

"They're hooves! Why do you have hooves? And all that hair! Where are your clothes? Who are you? _What_ are you? Where'd you come from? What are you doing here?"

"My God, woman! Take a breath!" He thumbed his chest. "Who I am is me. What I am I already explained to you: your friend!"

"This has to be a dream. I'm going to wake up, I just know it."

"Fortunately for me, you're not dreaming. Thank you for your aid. You can—"

"I didn't help you! I didn't do anything!"

"Oh but you did! And I feel just horrible not telling you that you would be bleeding a little, but I know that you wouldn't have done it if you'd have known. Now, enough with the boring and trivial past. Let's talk about the future, Maeve Minnow. For starters, what would you like to name me? Anything you'd like."

"My name is Maeve Marlowe, not Minnow. You don't already have a name?"

"I do. But I am forever in your debt, and to show my gratitude I'll start by giving you the pleasure of naming me."

"Are you a genie or something? Do I get wishes?"

It amused him. His was a genuine and affable laughter, maybe an octave or two higher than most boys her age. "That's insulting, sweetie. Not because I'm better than the mystical genie, but because I'd never limit you to a mere three wishes. But that doesn't matter because I can't grant wishes: I'm not a magician. Magic isn't real, you know? I suspect you already knew that. So how about a name?"

"Okay. I know! Brewer!"

"Brewer," he repeated undecidedly.

"That was the name of my dog. He got hit by a car."

"I'd be honored. But let's spell it differently. Instead of B-R-E-W-E-R, how about B-R-E-U-E-R?"

"That's fine. How'd you know the way we spelled it?"

"I figured. Shall we get back to the adults now?"

"Yes. I'd better hurry, too. How long have I been asleep?" She checked her watch.

"Oh, I'd guess about five hours," he said coolly.

"Oh, man... I'm going to get it."

"Ye with so little faith. Remember what I said?"

"Yeah," she said doubtfully. "I won't be spanked ever again."

"Bingo." He dug his black clawish nails into the bark of the old oak and managed to extract a narrow strip, which he fashioned into a toothpick and rolled it around in his mouth.

"Why doesn't it smell anymore? It was horrible."

He shrugged. "Maybe from the water you put under your nose?"

"I guess. I don't smell that either, though. Oh well."

She walked in long strides. Beside her, Breuer took seemingly twice as many steps to equal her pace. She glanced down at her pants and saw the scarlet letter I lengthwise across her right thigh. She had hoped that was a dream. "Man-oh-man, I can't believe how stupid I am. Why'd I have to wipe it on my pants?" She checked her finger: dried blood.

"Maeve," he began, now skipping beside her and grinning most charmingly, "you need to start trusting me. Stop worrying about... well, stop worrying. Period. I have a funny feeling things are going to turn out just fine." He capered ahead of her.

"I trust that you believe that, Breuer, but you don't know my parents. You should stay here. They'd freak if they saw you."

"They probably would!" He chuckled. _"If_ they saw me. But they won't."

"Are you going to hide?"

"No ma'am! It's just that nobody can see me. Besides you, of course."

"Why not? You aren't invisible."

"To you I'm most certainly visible."

"Bull crap! You mean to tell me that you're invisible to everyone but me?"

"That's what I mean to tell you, yes."

"Great," she sighed, "an imaginary friend. I got in trouble for having one of those a while back."

"What's _wrong_ with your parents?" He faced Maeve, skipping backwards effortlessly. "Punishing a tender little girl for having fun with an imaginary friend? That's simply unthinkable!" He shook his head disapprovingly. "Poor Maeve Minnow. You really got the raw end of the stick when they handed out parents."

"That's funny." She giggled. "They're not all that bad. They can be nice, too."

"Is that right? Give me an example of their kindness, I'm dying to hear."

"Mom let me stay home from school last Monday when I asked if I could. She even let me stay home on Tuesday."

"What a saint!" As if to show off, Breuer side-skipped a loop around Maeve as he said, "So selfless of her, too. She had nothing to gain from it, did she?"

"No."

"I see. And you say that she let you stay home when you asked? You sure that it wasn't more like she _made_ you stay home?" Maeve didn't respond. "You know, Minnow, society looks down on child abuse." He fell in step beside her once again, looked up at her with earnest eyes. "It seems to me that if you went to school with bruises all over your body, teachers might start asking questions. Then those questions might make their way to Child Protective Services. And your saint of a mother would then have company knocking at your door. And not for the first time, either; she can't talk her way out of it every time."

"What's Child Prospective Services?"

He grinned at her words. "Something your folks would be just fine keeping you ignorant of. Never mind that, though. I know what you mean and you don't know any better. Think of me as your newest teacher. But unlike the others, with me learning is fun!" He clapped his hands together and pointed heavenward like he was some John Travolta-thing in Saturday Night Fever. "I'll teach you all kinds of neat things." He stared obliquely at her. "Just wait, you'll see."

### Chapter 5

Maeve returned to her matted-grass seat relieved that her parents were evidently none-the-wiser. There was no way she'd be able to conceal the blood stain across her pants (not to mention the dirt on her clothes and hands). But at least this problem wasn't as serious as getting caught running off. Retribution for dirty clothes would be standard issue. She wouldn't likely bleed from the affair, and that's what really mattered. Black and blue trump red every time. Purple Trouble is a friendlier shade than Red Trouble.

She opened A Tale of Two Cities, feigned reading.

"That's a good book, li'l Miss Minnow. Thirty-million Oprah viewers can't be wrong." He winked.

"Are you poking fun, Breuer?" She tried acting indignant but it wasn't her thing.

"I wouldn't do that to you. Want to see something neat?" He pressed his hands against the broken grass and did a hand-stand. Once fully erected, he clapped his hooves together.

"Cool! How do you do that? Teach me!"

He turned right-side up. "I'm afraid it's not so much teaching as it is balance and strength. Let's see what you got under those sleeves. You got some muscles?"

"Yes I got some muscles. Don't you worry about that." She pulled up her sleeves to show Breuer. "Not as big as yours, but they work just fine."

"Hmm, I'm sure they do. But they'd need to do more than simply work. They'd need to support your weight. What are you, about two-hundred? Two-fifty?"

She giggled, threw a clump of freshly-torn grass at him. "No! I'm fifty-three pounds, if you must know."

"I was close! Okay, let's try it. Get up."

Breuer had her double over and place her head and hands on the ground. Then her knees on cocked elbows. She wobbled about. Her shirt fell down to her armpits. Breuer steadied her slightly, but made her do the bulk of the balancing. Once she was firmly in place, he instructed her to slowly extend her legs. He steadied her as she did, and once her legs were directly overhead he let go and took a step back. He was proud of her, and his expression reflected that proudness.

"I'm doing it!" she wailed, a little too loudly.

He shushed her. "Not so loud."

The door opened. Maeve's mother observed the antics of her daughter. "What on God's green earth are you doing?"

"I see where you pick up your phrases," Breuer said thickly without regard for being heard or seen.

Maeve fell over, grass carpet dampening the impact. "Sorry, Mom. I'll behave."

Her lips tightened, brow lowered. "You're filthy! On the way home your father and I are going to have a little talk with you." She fixed on the blood stain streaking across Maeve's pants, tightened her lips even more. Her expression told Maeve all she needed to know. It probably wasn't going to be the purple kind of trouble after all.

"We're wrapping this up now. You better behave these last few minutes or so help me God you're going to be in a world of hurt. Got me?"

Maeve hung her head defeatedly, nodded. "Sorry," she uttered in her smallest voice. The door closed.

"I guess I was wrong," Breuer said facetiously. "She's a lovely woman, your mother."

"Yeah. I shouldn't have done it. I should've behaved. What was I thinking?"

"Hey-hey! There'll be none of that! All your worries are gone, chipmunk. As an old friend once said, don't worry about the day, let the day worry about itself."

"I don't get it. Is that from the bible or something?"

Breuer sidled up to Maeve, embraced her with an arm around her shoulders. "Don't you worry about a thing. After what you did for me, you deserve the very best and that's exactly what you're going to get."

"I deserve what I'm about to get. The belt. Probably old blacky, too. I hate the black one more than you can imagine, Breuer. I hate how it feels not just when it hits me, but for hours after. It's the only one that makes me bleed, and it makes me bleed a _lot._ At least they usually don't get me in the face with that one. Unless I deserve it. I'm so stupid."

"Minnow, if you had one wish, and I were the type who could grant it—but I already said that I can't because magic isn't real—what would it be?"

"I don't know. To never get in trouble again, I guess."

"Ah! Now we're talking! To rephrase what you said, you wish you'd never be punished again. Right?"

With the familiar weight of the world resting squarely on her shoulders, a prickling in her eyes, she nodded.

He wiped away a tear forming in her eye, lifted her chin, and said, "Crying? Crying is for people who aren't about to have their wish come true. So why are you crying?"

"Yeah right. You'd better learn magic right quick, then."

"Magic isn't the answer to our problems, you know. Sometimes you just have to think really hard and the solutions just _POP!_ come from way out in left field, and you know what to do."

"Well that never happens to me."

"Not yet it doesn't. But it will some day. You can't expect to receive a full education in a day, can you? Greatness takes time." He took a step back and with a mischievous grin said, "But if it's magic you want, magic you'll get. Check this out." He opened his palm, displaying a black wand-like object five inches long, quarter inch wide, squared edges. Six evenly-spaced inlaid rubies twinkled under the sun. It looked like a tiny black piano leg with six drops of blood dotting down it. The sight made her fingertip throb a dull pain that was entirely in her head.

"Where'd you get that? What is it?"

"Less talking, more watching." He angled the wand down to afford her a careful assessment of the wand's surface, the six crimson gems. She nodded. Moving only his wrist he arced the wand upright to display the underside of the wand: six red rubies. Both sides identical. She nodded. He lowered it back down. "Rubies on top, rubies on bottom. Right?"

"Yes."

Once more he showed both sides, arm steady, wrist arcing the wand up and down. She watched attentively. "Now..." With the wand pointed at her waist he swept his other hand over the wand, hovering over it by inches. As the trailing end of his hand cleared the wand, sapphires now gleamed into view one at a time. Six deep blue sapphires in place of the rubies.

Her eyes widened. "Do it again."

"As you wish." He cupped the wand out of view, opened it once again, showing both sides to be rubies. A swift fly-over by his left hand (she focused to see if the hand touched the wand, and it did not) now revealed six sapphires. Then, as if to throw her into a greater state of bedazzlement, he showed her that both sides of the wand were now sapphire.

"No way. May I see it?"

He handed it to her. Eagerly she flipped it over: rubies. She flipped it again: sapphires. She inspected the item for a switch or button or doohickey that might change the precious stones at will. He watched amusedly as she found nothing to aid in the magic trick.

"How do you do it, Breuer? You said you can't do magic."

"I can't perform magic. I don't lie, precious Maeve. As for the wand—just as your problem with your folks, just as any problem in the world—the solution to the problem at hand isn't best solved with magic." He stole the wand from her, pointed it at her waist in the same fashion as before. "Solutions are best solved with the mind, Minnow. The _mind."_ He performed the trick again only much, much slower. "Watch carefully." He arced the wand up, then down. Up, then down.

"You're twisting the wand as you're raising it!" she exclaimed, this time with the good sense to mind her volume.

"Exactly. You're seeing the same side at both angles. You can't see me rotating the wand around unless I do it slowly."

"So you do the same thing after you turn it over to the blue side. That's so cool! And so simple! One side is permanently blue, one side red. Can I try?" She took it from him, and without delay mimicked his movements. It wasn't long before she executed the trick flawlessly. She smiled from ear to ear, hopped up and down. "Can I keep it?"

"You bet."

The shack door opened. Four adults plus two additional—the two who claimed stake to Maeve's hide—walked out. "Get in the car," her mom barked; it might have been one syllable. Maeve nodded and scurried along in front of the adults to the wagon. She listened to them talking about grown-up stuff that she'd never understand. She figured it was probably best that way, anyhow. They laughed over something and began their goodbyes.

Maeve was in the backseat of the wagon, head resting against the window. The thrill of the trick was well behind her; anticipation of her punishment replaced it.

Breuer sat beside her, shaking his head. "Don't waste your tears on them. They don't deserve it."

"I can't help it," she said in no more than a breath.

He patted her knee reassuringly. "Do you know what they were up to in that decrepitude of a house out here in the middle of nowhere?"

She shook her head against the window as she stared morosely at a lone daisy not ten feet away. Was it a love-me? Probably a love-me-not.

"Religious zealots. All of them. Nut jobs. Whackos. They think the world will end soon. There are enough cans of food in there to feed all of Ethiopia for a month. Or your mom, once."

He didn't get so much as a smile out of her on that one.

Both front doors opened at once and the weight of two adults—the passenger side weight much more encumbering than the driver's—rocked the wagon before the doors closed shut. The only sound in the quiet cabin of the vehicle was her mother's labored breathing. Maeve kept her eyes closed, refused to see her parents' expressions. In her mind's eye she _could_ see them, an ugliness so powerful that not even the blind could escape it.

"Yeah, you'd better cry," her mother scorned. "Just wait till we get home, missy." She looked closer at Maeve's clothes and the dirt mottling them. "Your clothes! They're filthy!"

"Good," said Luke. "She can wear them just like that to school tomorrow."

"Mmm, no. I don't think so. I don't think your daughter will be going to school tomorrow. I think she's coming down with the flu again."

A tear rolled down the windowpane. Her lower lip quivered.

"It's like I'm talking to myself over here," Breuer said, to himself. "Did you not hear me when I said you'd be fine? Golly gee, Mae-Vee. If you and I are going to work out, you're going to have to start having at least a smidgeon of faith in me. The size of a mustard seed is all I ask, and I don't even get that much from you."

"I can't help it," Maeve replied. "This is all your fault. I hate you."

"What the _hell_ did you just say?" Mother turned to face her. "Pull the car over, Luke."

"No!" Maeve cried desperately. "I'm sorry, that wasn't to you! I didn't say that to you! Or to dad!"

"Then whom? If not us, then whom?" In a uncharacteristically calm voice, she said, "Maeve, be honest with me. Are you imagining Jasper again?"

"No. I swear I'm not."

"Is there a new one? What did I say about imaginary friends?"

"That they're for retards and psychics," Maeve replied and hiccupped.

"Psychos, not psychics. If you weren't talking to Jasper, you were talking to me. You said you hate me. Didn't you?"

Maeve shook her head. Another hiccup, only it wasn't a hiccup but a sob.

"Luke, I said pull the damned car over. This is getting fixed right now."

"No," Maeve begged, "please don't. Please."

"Babe, I don't think that's a good idea right now," Luke said cautiously. "Hal is behind us. He'll stop and ask if something's the matter."

"You bet your daughter's damned soul something's the matter!" She sharpened her dark eyes, eyes like a raven's, on Maeve and said, "Maybe Hal would like a turn at disciplining this little heathen. We can all take a turn on her. How about that?"

"It's going to have to wait," Luke said firmly. "We can't have the Parker's see this. It's embarrassing. Especially when their kids are so well behaved."

"Ain't that the truth." She faced Luke. "How'd they get so lucky? We really got screwed, you know? She gets it from you, not me." She huffed and faced forward, folded her arms below her sizeable breasts. "I don't know how I'll make it an hour without punishing her, but I guess I'll try."

"Pray. It works for me sometimes."

### Chapter 6

They had been driving for some time (too long; it wouldn't be long before they got home). Maeve watched the stalks of corn wiz by under the bronze late-afternoon sky. Her stomach rumbled. The half bowl of Cheerios was spent hours ago. No lunch had been a no brainer. Would there be dinner? No way, Jose. She took a quick mental inventory of the food stashes in her room and remembered she'd stowed away some grapes. When was that? A week ago? Two? Would they still be edible? Maybe. She wondered what her parents may have snacked on inside the shack. Something. Surely something. People don't get to be upwards of three hundred pounds by skipping meals.

_Life sucks,_ she thought _. Anyone who says otherwise is lying._ At least the crying stopped. There's that. Like it mattered. Soon she'd be crying all over again so why stop now?

"Mae-Vee, Mae-Vee, how's it going over there, princess?"

"Don't talk to me," she whispered.

"I know you're upset with me. That's understandable. But you're going to need to put that behind you for a moment. Can you do that for me?" She shrugged. "I'll take that as a yes. Now do as I say. First, you need to unbuckle and hop in back."

"You're crazy." Even with the radio playing moldy-oldies and the cabin noise being what it was, she somehow knew that Breuer could hear her quietest voice. Heck, he could probably hear her if she just thought the words. "They'll pull over and hit me."

"They can't. There's no shoulder for them to pull off to. You're fine. Remember the mustard seed? I need you to have more than that right now. We don't have forever, so hurry up and get in the back."

"Why? How's that going to help the price of tea in Tennessee?"

"Thank God you have nothing in common with your mother other than your stubbornness. Just do it. I haven't said one thing that should give you cause to doubt me. Besides, you're going to take a beating one way or another, be it in the car or at home. The best warriors are those with nothing left to lose, and sweetheart you've got nothing left to lose. Hop in back."

She stared at him undecidedly.

"Please?" He exaggerated a frown. "I'll tell you what: if you do it, I'll get you a brand new kitty tomorrow. Deal?"

_Yeah right_ , she thought. _Like they'd let me have another pet after what I did to Brewer._

"I got news for you, sweet-tits. You didn't leave the gate open for Brewer to get out and get himself squished flat. That was Luke's doing. And it wasn't an accident, mind you. He hated that dog ever since the day he stepped in its shit. So he did what he did and blamed you for it. And like Jesus, you paid for Luke's sins in the flesh. In black and blue flesh. Red flesh?" He scrutinized her. "Yep, it was Red Trouble."

Maeve was speechless.

"What, like that should surprise you? They probably would've been happier if it had been you who got hit by the car. You're quite a pain in the ass to them, you know?"

You're so mean! You'd better get me a kitten, and you better cross your heart and hope to die that nothing bad happens to my kitty. Because if it ends up like Brewer, I'm going to be crossing all kinds of streets that day.

"Just what is that supposed to mean?"

Oh? Mister Breuer doesn't know everything after all?

"I never claimed to know everything. And I think I do know what you mean. You're going to get yourself hit by a car? Is that it?"

She glared at him, then went back to the window.

"My God, woman! Ten-years-old and already contemplating suicide?" He shook his chubby little head and said, "I guess that's to be expected, having June and Ward Cleaver over here as your parents." He crossed his heart and said, "Nothing bad will happen to your kitty. I promise."

She nodded, took a deep breath and unlatched her seat belt, clambered over the vinyl bench seat and sat in the flat luggage area. _Now what?_

"I'll get to that," Breuer assured.

"Maeve! You little sh—brat! Get your rear-end back to your seat! What the hell is wrong with you today?"

"It's show time," Breuer said. He jumped in back and gave her specific instructions.

"I can't say that," Maeve said.

"What did you just say?" Mother said in an octave reserved for her fiercest of reproaches.

A brief pause. "I wasn't talking to you, fatty," Maeve repeated, word for word. "I was talking to Jasper. Jasper says you're going to heck." She amended, "Hell. You're going to hell."

Her mother faced forward, placed a hand on her chest and began hyperventilating. "Luke, pull over this second. I'm going to kill your daughter. I swear it, I'm going to kill her."

"Uh... there's nowhere to pull over, dear."

"Just stop the car. I'm going to die this second if I can't"—she glowered back at Maeve and snarled—"whip the holy-hell out of that rotten little shit!" She gasped and covered her mouth. Oops-a-daisy.

" _Ooo_ , you said shit!" Maeve cried triumphantly. "Shit! You said shit! Oh, you're _so_ going to hell now!"

For a moment her mother was calm. Maybe she never thought in a million years she'd ever hear her daughter utter those words, or maybe it was just the calm before the storm, but when it ended, it ended with atomic fury. She clawed at her seatbelt while spitting threats of bodily injury over her shoulder. In her hysteria she couldn't get the seatbelt off. It took every bit of her concentration to unlatch it. It freed. She bellowed insults and promises to Maeve as she moved to climb over the first of two bench seats.

"Babe, don't do that," Luke warned. "You'll hurt yourself or get stuck. Here, I'll pull over as soon as I see a place to, okay?"

She didn't hear a word of it. She heard belts cracking, fists pummeling, cries for mercy, but she didn't hear a fucking word. But she saw. Hell yes she saw. She saw red.

But she would have done well to heed Luke's advice, because he was right in his concern. Like trying to stuff a ham through a mail slot, or a Twinkie under the bathroom door, she wedged. Wedged between the bench and ceiling. Her boobs somehow made it over and hung over the seat like two gigantic water balloons in a cloth sack. She was pinned at the gut.

Being wedged, in itself, wasn't what cranked up the rheostat of her rage to murderous levels just then. She was unable to punish a certain little heathen shit and that was just too much to endure. "Come here you little bastard! Come here this second or you're dead! You hear me? _Dead!_ You get your filthy mouth up here this fucking second!"

Breuer continued to coach Maeve.

"You're not my mom!" Maeve snipped. "You're just some disturbed bitch who can't please her husband. That's why he has to go buy prostitutes and lie to your fat ass by saying he's working late."

Nagasaki and Hiroshima, together they detonated in the heart of the beast, incinerating whatever fray of sanity, if any, had remained.

Thus far Luke had been content with waiting until they were home to dole out a licking with old blacky. But that was then and this was now. With that little remark she didn't just cross the line, she dashed across it while flipping the bird and spitting on him. He looked back with the caliber of rage more characteristic of his wife: maniacal, unfettered, unyielding. He spat altered versions of his wife's threats, and vowed that Maeve would get what she deserved.

"He's right," Breuer said to Maeve. "You'll get what you deserve. Now lie down flat and close your eyes, precious."

She did as Breuer instructed. In addition, she prayed to God. Prayed that she wasn't going to be murdered by her mom and dad, and that seemed like it required nothing less than a full-blown miracle at that moment. She felt the body of Breuer straddle and lay down on top of her. She prayed as fast and hard as she could.

Maeve didn't hear the _dub-dub-dub-dub_ of the tires rolling over the reflective warning-globes in the middle of the road. The wagon had veered partially into the opposing lane. She wasn't cognizant of the frantic horn of the eighteen-wheeler barreling toward them. When the rig clipped the driver's-side of the wagon head on, Maeve went to sleep. It was a nice long sleep. She'd awaken to a new beginning. A rebirth into a new world.

### Chapter 7

Maeve woke up confused in an unfamiliar environment with bright white light from overhead fluorescents. There were charts on white walls, pale green tile floors, machines doing God knows what. It was the hospital, she decided. A chubby face with a shock of charcoal hair was smiling at her from a nearby seat. Breuer waved his fingers at her.

"Where's my kitten," she asked hoarsely.

"It'll have to wait until we get out of here. But I never have and never will lie to you. You'll have your kitten, Maeve Minnow."

"What happened?"

"You know what happened. You suspected what was going to happen all along, didn't you?"

She frowned, reflected back. Then it hit her. Hit her like an eighteen-wheeler. An accident. That's how Breuer would see to it that she would never be punished again. She began weeping.

"Now-now, I'm not big on tears." He stood up. "For Pete's sake! There's nothing to be sad about! All your troubles are going to be buried sometime early next week! Closed casket, my guess."

Her crying worsened.

"Geez Louise! I do you a favor and all you do is cry? Some gratitude!"

"It's not that," she said, eyes too blurry to see more than a dwarven smudge giving her the what-for. "Thank you, Breuer," she said sincerely. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

A nurse checked in, then went for the doctor.

### Chapter 8

Two doctors, a uniformed police officer, and a man in a suit entered the hospital room in a procession. They all wore the same somber expression hidden behind a measured grin. The doctor with more gray in his hair caressed her hand. "Hello, dear."

"Hi."

"How do you feel?"

"Sore." She moved her head: a bolt of pain like a charged live-wire surged the length of her neck. She hissed.

"Honey, don't do that," the doctor advised. "If all you are is sore, that's nothing short of a miracle. We've taken some fancy x-rays of you last night and you are going to be just fine."

"I could've told you that," Breuer remarked haughtily.

"Are you feeling up to answering a couple questions from a nice man?" the doctor asked. "It's rather important."

"Kay."

"I'll be outside the room momentarily." He patted her hand and left the little room. The other doctor and the uniformed officer followed him out. The man in a suit approached the bed, hands folded together loosely at his lap. "My name is Lieutenant Hornsby." He rolled his eyes at his words. "Let me try that again. Hi, I'm Bob. It's a delight to meet you, and I'm so very sorry for your accident. And even more sorry for what I'm about to say."

"Don't be," Maeve said. "I already know. They're dead. Right?"

A solemn nod. "May I ask you something personal?" She shrugged and consequently winced. "How does that make you feel? That they perished in the accident?"

_What should I tell him?_ Maeve thought.

"The truth," Breuer replied. "Why the hell not, huh?"

"How I feel... how I feel about them being dead? I'm supposed to feel bad. I know that much. Bob, I don't. I don't feel bad. I feel good about it. Does that make me wicked? It does, doesn't it?"

"You aren't the least bit wicked," Bob said sincerely.

"That eighteen-wheeler sure was wicked." Breuer's two cents.

"But I do think that's an interesting thing to say," Bob pursued. "I suppose why you feel that way toward them isn't very relevant anymore. Mae, why and when did you write this?" He produced a folded over piece of paper roughly the size of A Tale of Two Cities page and showed her.

"It's Maeve, not Mae." She read what was scrawled on top of the page in pencil: I am Mae Clark.

"I probably should've mentioned that," Breuer said sheepishly.

"What's this?" asked Maeve.

"You didn't write that?"

"Tell him you wrote it," advised Breuer.

"I guess I did. I don't remember, with the accident and all." Was that her writing? She didn't think so, but it may have been.

"It was in your pocket. Is that your name?"

She looked to Breuer. He nodded. Maeve then nodded at Bob, evoking a flash of pain at the base of her skull.

"Your name is Mae Clark?" he asked once again.

"Yeah-yeah, Mae Clark. Why?"

"What can you remember of your early youth, when you were much younger. What's your oldest memory?"

Maeve looked over to Breuer without moving her head this time.

"You keep looking over there," Bob remarked. "Is something bothering you?"

"No."

"Tell him you're tired," counseled Breuer, "and you'll answer his questions later. He's avoiding the meat and potatoes of this whole thing and is taking his sweet time doing so."

She repeated what Breuer said and Bob accepted it with a sympathetic grin. He said something but Maeve wasn't listening. Instead she asked in her head what the meat and potatoes of this whole thing was.

"I'd rather not say. Call me romantic or just plain old-fashioned, but I'd rather not say."

What's that mean?

"Nothing. Just hang in there, peach. You're doing great."

Bob left the room for a moment, returned with more people. More brand new faces. A pair of them. They had one thing in common from the onset: their eyes were puffy and cheeks tear-scarred. For no reason at all they began weeping at her sight. Maeve looked over at Breuer with a raised brow. He grinned shyly and shrugged.

The woman nodded at lieutenant Bob and hugged him. A hug so brief it could've set records. She tore away from him and rushed to the bed, wrapped her arms around Maeve as gingerly as she could manage (which wasn't gingerly enough).

"Ma'am! Careful!" a doctor scorned.

"Sweet child, are you okay?" the lady asked. "Are you in pain?" The woman's voice was cracking with emotion.

"I'm okay. Who are you?" From the resulting sob, Maeve deduced that she probably said the wrong thing.

"That's Rebecca," Breuer said. "She's your mom, li'l Minnow. You _could_ just pretend to remember her. She's been through hell. Huh," he mused, "she comes out of hell just as your two works-of-art are entering it. Poetic, isn't it?"

"My mom?" she said aloud. It was intended for Breuer but received by the woman soaking Maeve's gown and sheets with tears.

"Yes!" Rebecca cried. She beamed at her. "You remember!"

Maeve looked over at Breuer with a comical expression that made him laugh. "You need to stop looking at me," he said. "People will think you're crazy. Just tell her that you vaguely remember, but nothing concrete."

"Kinda," Maeve said. "It's hard to remember. You're my mom? I mean... you're my mom." She fixed on the man and decided that he must be her dad. He lit up merely from obtaining her attention. He asked if she remembered him, too. "Sort of. My head hurts, sorry."

"Don't be sorry," her mother murmured. "You haven't a thing in the world to be sorry for. It's we who are sorry. Sorry for allowing this to have happened. For more than six years your father and I have been trying to find you, and we never gave up, even when people told us we should make peace with your... I'm so sorry, Mae. I'm so, so sorry." She rested her head tenderly on Maeve's chest, stroked her hair with the loving care of a mother.

You could've told me, you know. So I was kidnapped?

"Turns out that you were, yes," Breuer replied. "Things aren't so bad after all, eh? You lose a pair of rotten parents one day and pick up a pair of quality ones the next. Did I say things would work out or what?"

I'll never doubt you again. But I don't know about this Mae business. I'm Maeve, not Mae.

"You'll always be my brave li'l Maeve Minnow, but to everyone else you're Mae Clark, the little girl who was snatched up at a mall on Christmas eve six years ago and long forsaken by everyone except these two people. They cry more than you do, if that's possible. Must be in your DNA."

When should I be expecting my kitten?

"It'll be waiting on your doorstep. How's that sound?"

Perfect.

"How much do you want to bet that a few dozen news vans are on their way over here?"

Why? What happened?

### Chapter 9

Tag strolled into the Saucy Minx bar at dusk and was greeted by the daytime bartender Dallas. The pub was long and narrow, plainly decorated and clean; a small joint with no real ambitions. There were three patrons present, each nursing a pint of beer. Tag didn't need to check the kegs, garnishes, or bathrooms: Dallas was a pillar of reliability. The amiable bartender was on his way out when a young woman was on her way in. From behind the bar Tag gave her the standard grin; hers looked more forced than his. She perched herself up on a barstool. She wasn't especially attractive by Chico State University standards. She might be found in a Penny's circular modeling a pair of Capri pants; fifty-percent off this weekend only.

She ordered a Jack-and-Coke and Tag got on it. He couldn't recall having seen her at the Saucy Minx before. "You look like you could use a double. Bad day, huh?"

"You're right, make it a double. Got my grades today. I don't know if I'll be graduating this year unless I sleep with at least two professors."

Tag wondered if it was a joke or unabashed honesty. "Sorry to hear that. Name's Tag, by the way." He shook her hand and added, "Haven't seen you in here before."

"Never been. I usually go to Mr. Lucky's but I have a running tab and I'm short this month. Don't worry, I'm not going to ask for a tab."

"Good, because we don't give them. As a formality I have to see your I.D." Not a formality unless you look less than twenty-one, which she did. He put her drink on the counter and waited as she produced her license and handed it to him. He checked it, returned it. She drank half her drink in one swig and gazed around the bar, which was less than half the size of Mr. Lucky's. On the busiest night of the week there might be a head-count of fifty, forty or so of them being students.

A man entered the pub from the restroom. "Ta-aaag! What's up?"

"Evening, Tank. I should've guessed you'd be here."

"Why, because Thursday is payday? You think you got me all figured out, don't you?"

"You're a tough nut to crack. How you doing, bud?" His tumbler was almost empty. "Another gin-and-tonic?"

"You know it." He almost took to the nearest stool when he noticed a marginally attractive girl at the other end of the bar. He swaggered over and sat with one seat between them. She stared blindly at her drink, lost in reverie, and thus she didn't notice his appraising stare.

"Where's Dwayne been these days?" Tag inquired. "Haven't seen him in here all week."

"He's been sick. Did he tell you that he's transferring to Sacramento State next semester?"

"No, first I've heard. Are you getting another roommate?"

"Yeah," he said disappointedly. "Good luck finding another Dwayne, huh? Bastard writes at least half of my papers. I might actually have to start studying. What a prick."

"What a selfish bastard, that Dwayne."

Molly punished the last of her Jack-and-Coke like a woman who enjoyed her booze. She glanced up at the clock.

"Another Jack-and-Coke, Molly?"

She asked how he knew her name.

"Your license."

Tank faced her and said, "Cool name, Molly. I love that song Molly by Sponge."

She grudgingly acknowledged him before saying she'd have another Jack-and-Coke, single this time.

"So you say you're single?" slurred Tank.

"No, I'm not," she replied, eyes forward. "And I don't think my boyfriend would appreciate you ogling me."

"Boyfriend? Ha! That's the oldest one in the book. You don't have a boyfriend."

Tag would be hearing the same version of this shameless bit later that night. It's the unofficial Chico State University comeback for rejection.

"Oh? Why don't you ask him?" Molly directed a nod at Tag.

Tank blinked. "I'm not ogling your girlfriend, bro. I didn't know she was your woman."

Molly winked at Tag. _Please help me here_ , her eyes said. _I'm having one of those days and this guy is pure shit._ "It's all good, Tankster. Our relationship is pretty damned new. You couldn't have known."

"Cool." Tank sipped his new drink. "So Tag, you write. How about you take Dwayne's place writing my papers? Might be some Benjamins in it for you."

"Sure, if you want to fail your classes. Just because I write doesn't mean I write well."

"Don't say that." Molly was offended. "That's what attracted me to you in the first place. Your beautiful words."

"Thanks, doll. If only publishers echoed your sentiments, I wouldn't be damned to pour drinks for eternity."

Tank's cellphone rang. He fished it from his pocket. "Sup, dude?" A pause. "Damn, man. I totally forgot. You need it now? I just got to the Minx fifteen minutes ago." Another pause. "All right. I'll be there in ten." He ended the call and said, "Don't let the gin get too comfortable. I forgot that I was supposed to pick up toilet-paper. Dwayne's shitting soup and it's my turn to buy the Charmin. Be back soon."

After he left Tag said, "So, Molly, when do I get to meet the parents?" He handed her a new drink.

Her mood turned playful. "Normally I'd say it's too soon to meet them, but I'll make an exception for you." She sipped.

"That's the nicest thing you've said to me since we've been dating."

"What can I say? You're easy on the eyes."

"I tend to become easier on the eyes as drinks are consumed. You should see how ugly I am outside the Saucy Minx."

"You really write?"

"Unfortunately. I'm not any good but it's fun."

"What do you write about?"

"Anything and everything."

"Examples, please."

"I've written two novels and about a dozen short stories. Do you want to know how good they are? I've sent samples of them to probably every agent in the country and have gotten nothing but rejections. Pretty impressive, eh?"

"Aww, that blows. That doesn't mean you aren't any good, though. I'm sure your time will come. What are your novels about?"

"I don't want to bore you with the details."

"Please?"

"They're fiction. Suspense, mystery, relationship crap. The protagonist in both novels is the same woman: Mae Clark. She's a smart, sexy thing who was dealt a bad hand in life but plays her cards well. Original, huh? How many times can that tale be re-spun? I'll tell you what, I'll give you a shot of Jägermeister on the house if I don't have to talk about my shitty writing."

"If you take one with me you got a deal."

He poured two shots and toasted to Mae Clark. They tossed them back; she chased it with her Jack-and-Coke. Tag chased it with the relief of evading the loathsome details of his writing.

"So when are you taking me out again?" Molly asked. "It's like we never go out anymore."

"I hate to break this to you, but I've been spending time with another woman. Are you pissed?"

"Who, Mae? I'm being serious."

"So am I. I've spent more time with Mae than any girlfriend I've had."

"You want to go see a movie this weekend?"

His hesitation would've been answer enough. "I'm pretty busy this weekend. I've got to—"

"It's okay. You don't need to justify rejecting me."

"It's not that I wouldn't enjoy seeing a flick with you."

"It's that you aren't attracted to me. No big deal. I'm a big girl, I can handle rejection."

Tag stared raptly at her a moment, then took the bar towel from his hip and wiped the counter mindlessly. "I'm not accustomed to that degree of forwardness from someone not yet drunk."

"Well, we had a good run, I guess."

Tag chuckled. "I'm off this Sunday. How does seven sound?"

"Please, don't do me any favors. I don't need a pity date."

"It's not a pity date. I've never taken a girl out on a pity date."

"That calls for another round, then. On me this time."

He poured two more. Then two more.

At midnight she stumbled out of the Saucy Minx and into a cab.

### Chapter 10

Mae was walking the two blocks home from middle-school when Breuer manifested beside her, skipping as he loved doing. "Hi, Breuer."

"Hi, my lovely Maeve Minnow. You're looking smart today."

"I try. What've you been up to? Haven't seen you around much lately."

"Oh, a little of this, a little of that. Nothing worth mentioning. I've been thinking... you know who'd make a cute couple?"

They rounded the corner. Mae could see her dad pulling weeds in the flower-bed in the distance. "Pray tell."

"You and Michael."

"Michael? Michael who?"

"You know perfectly well Michael who."

"My neighbor? Why do you think that?"

"I just do. Why shouldn't you like him? He's a good looking boy, isn't he?"

"Not really. Maybe a little. His brother Chris sure is cute. Even Jake is cuter than Michael, but he's only twelve I think. Maybe thirteen."

"I know you think Chris is cute, but he's two years older than you. He's not your type, anyway."

"Two years older than me is my type. He just turned sixteen and is getting his driver's license. You see that old Chevy truck in the driveway? That's his. He could drive me to school and back."

"Lazy! It's two blocks away!"

She laughed. "I am not. This fall I'll be starting high school, which is too far to walk."

"So how about Michael? You admitted that he's at least a little cute. Why don't you go hang out with him? Get to know him a little better, instead of only talking to Chris."

As they neared the house, her dad noticed her and waved. She waved back. "You're not telling me something, Breuer. Remember you promised you'd never lie to me."

"Holding back information isn't lying, my love. I'll never lie to you."

"Then spill it, Breuer."

Mae's father was frowning at her. Breuer said, "Not now. Your folks are worrying about you, you know. Of course you know. Talking to yourself isn't normal for a beautiful girl of fourteen."

"Almost fifteen. Beautiful? You know how to sweet-talk the ladies, don't you? And I don't talk to myself, I talk to you."

"Shhh. David is watching. Why can't we just go back to how we used to do it?"

"Okay." Then she thought, _I told you, I don't like you reading my mind anymore. Are you listening right now?_

"Yes. But I promise I haven't done it once since you asked me not to."

I know, Breuer. I trust you.

"I love you, Minnow. I know I don't tell you enough."

You don't need to tell me. I know you do. I love you, too. You understand why I don't want you in my head, right?

"Yeah," he said grudgingly. "You don't want me hearing your personal thoughts. Maeve, it's normal to think about kissing boys and all that lovey-dovey stuff. You shouldn't be embarrassed by it."

I can't help it. And it's not just boys, it's the thought of having nothing private. A woman needs her privacy, Breuer.

"Hi, sweetheart," her father said. "How was school today?"

"Boring. Can I go to Lisa's for a while before dinner?"

With a pensive frown he tipped his hat back and wiped his forehead. "I don't know, we'll see. Your mom and I want to talk to you. I'm done here. Meet us at the table in five minutes?"

"Am I in trouble?"

"No. Nothing like that."

"Is it because of the change I took out of the jar?" she said desperately. "Because I'm sorry, I won't do it again."

"No, Mae. If you need money, all you have to do is ask. Five minutes, okay?"

"Okay." She went inside where she was greeted by Pancho the cat. She picked him up and squeezed him, kissed his furry head and set him back down. It seemed to have gotten warmer in a hurry. The first beads of sweat dotted her brow.

Rebecca was on the couch reading a magazine. She inquired into her daughter's day at school.

"Good am I in trouble?" she said all at once.

"Trouble? For what?"

"I don't know. Dad said you guys want to have a talk with me at the table."

Understanding washed over her motherly face. As fast as it came, a somber expression replaced it. "You're not in trouble. Is your father coming inside now?"

Mae nodded and felt her eyes stinging. The heater must have been set to high-high. "What did I do? I'm sorry for everything. Don't be mad at me." She wriggled out of her backpack and rushed to her mom, hugged her on the couch.

"Sweetheart, we aren't mad at you," she said reassuringly and hugged her back. "You have no reason to be upset."

The front door slammed shut behind Mae. She flinched and in a single movement sprang off of her mother and spun around with cat-like agility.

Rebecca unseated and turned Mae around. Her daughter's wide eyes, glazed and wrought with fear, broke her heart. She hugged Mae and whispered, "We're never going to hurt you. Never-never-never. Do you understand?—never." Rebecca felt her nod.

"Something wrong?" David wondered.

"Could you not slam the door shut?" Rebecca would've put a little more emphasis on each of those words if Mae was in the next room.

"I... I didn't mean to." He removed his gloves feeling the gravity of what he'd done. "I'm sorry, Mae. I often forget what used to happen when you got in trouble. Well, it's more like I choose not to remember. We haven't harmed you in... what is it, four years now? Doesn't that convince you that we're not like them?"

"What did I tell you about bringing that up?" Rebecca said reproachfully.

"I'm not!" He exhaled. "Babe, I'm just trying to make a point."

"Don't call her that," Mae said sternly. "Never again call her that."

Rebecca and David stared at one another. When it rains it pours.

The three sat on the couch, Mae between her parents. "Now that I know he used to call her that," David said softly, "you'll never hear me say it again."

"Can I go to my room? I want to go to my room."

"May we come with you?" Rebecca asked.

Mae nodded, then looked at her father's waist. David looked down to see what her eyes were fixed upon, wondered if it was his belt. Was it black leather?—of course.

The three went to her room, Breuer following closely behind, shaking his head. He broke his silence once he met eyes with Mae at the edge of her bed. "I gotta hand it to you, kiddo, you're a great actor. You could ask them to double your allowance right now and they'd do it. Well played."

"I'm not act—!" _I'm not acting! How dare you say that! You don't know, Breuer! You don't know what I went through!_

"I do know what you went through. If you'd let me read your mind I would have known that you weren't playing them." Mae scowled at Breuer. "I'm just saying, don't get all bent out of shape, jeesh. Things haven't been going too smoothly lately, and not allowing me to read your mind isn't helping things."

Her folks watched Mae look mighty angry at something that wasn't there. It was time to bring to light this ill behavior. Rebecca decided she'd be the one to speak. "Mae, sweetie, whom are you talking to?"

"Nobody," she said defiantly. "It was an accident."

"You accidently said that you're not acting? Nobody said that you were. And your father and I know that you aren't acting, but... but you directed those words to someone who's not here, and that worries me. _Us._ You've been doing it for these four years now, and it has gotten much worse lately. When your father said that we wanted to talk to you, it's because we decided that the next time one of us heard you having a conversation with someone who isn't there, we'd talk to you about it. We're concerned. Not mad, concerned. Open up to us. Tell us what's on your mind. There is nothing you could say that will make us upset with you. We just want to know that you're okay. Do you understand why we're concerned?"

She nodded. _What should I tell them, Breuer?_

"Can you tell us who it is you're talking to?" her mother asked. "An imaginary friend? At ten-years-old that's normal, but you'll be in high school later this year."

She kept eye-contact with her mom while thinking, _Breuer, what do I tell them?_ No response. He wasn't in her head. "What if it _is_ an imaginary friend? Would you think I'm retarded or psycho?"

"Oh dear," Breuer said. "Don't say that."

Then listen to my thoughts! You can listen to my thoughts in situations like these! Duh!

"Testy-testy, woman."

"We wouldn't think you were either of those things," her father said. "You are who you are, and we love you no matter what. But if there's something we can do to help you, we'd love to do so."

"Help me? Like...?"

"Psychiatrist, he means," Breuer informed. "They think you're hallucinating."

"I'm not hallucinating," Mae said to her father. "I don't need a psychiatrist."

They looked at each other. Rebecca said they didn't say that.

"No, but you hinted at it. I'm not dumb."

"Right now, tell us," David said authoritatively, "if you're not hallucinating, you have an imaginary friend, right? Does it speak to you? Do you hear voices in your head? Tell us now."

"David!" Rebecca shouted. "Don't talk to her like that!"

"I think you've gone too far on this one, kiddo," Breuer said. "You're going to have to admit to having an imaginary friend. You choose to have it, though. It comforts you. That'll work. Obviously tell them you don't hear voices."

"Okay. The thing is, it is an imaginary friend. I created him to comfort me when Mom and Dad were... mad. I don't hear voices, though."

Rebecca placed a hand over her mouth and through it repeated, "Your mom and dad?"

"I mean my old mom and dad."

"They were never your mom and dad," David said, much affected. "Just as it hurts you to hear me call your mother Babe, it hurts us to hear you refer to them as your mom and dad. I know it was an accident, but just know that it's very hard for us to hear that."

"Oh poor you!" Breuer said. "It hurts you to hear that? Try being the one getting beaten senseless for doing nothing more than behaving like a girl her age!"

_I know, right? Thanks, Breuer_. "So now what?" Mae asked.

"I don't know," Rebecca said hopelessly. "Would it be so bad to see a counselor? You could talk about the things that bother you; get some things out in the open. Your father and I wouldn't be there." Then amended, "Unless you'd like us to be there."

"Don't do it," Breuer warned. "A shrink will probably put you on Prozac or lithium. These two will do anything for you. Tell them no and thank them for their concern. Throw in that you'll start talking to them more about your feelings. Parents love to hear that bullshit."

Mae giggled, glanced briefly at Breuer reflexively, then back to her parents. Rebecca caught it, and it panged her heart. "No thanks," Mae said. "Thank you for your concern, but I don't think I want that. I'll try to be more open with you from now on, and tell you about my feelings."

"We'd love to hear that," David said.

_You were right!_ Mae laughed. It was a response that her parents would later decide not to ignore. Their daughter needed help and they'd get it for her whether she liked it or not.

### Chapter 11

After her parents left, Breuer advised she never do anything so stupid as that again. "They think you're loony. You know that?"

"Probably. So what? You just said that they'd do anything I want, and I don't want to see a shrink, so I won't. That's the end of that." She dusted her hands off to illustrate her point. "Now tell me why you want me—"

"Stop talking," Breuer warned. "They're coming to listen at the door."

She pointed to her head. _Okay. You can listen in. So tell me why you want me to like Michael._

"He needs someone right now."

What do you mean, needs someone?

"He needs a friend. He needs to feel wanted. He's been depressed over something that I won't get into."

Why me? I hardly know him. He wouldn't feel better if I became his friend.

"That's what you think. He likes you, Mae-Vee. He thinks you're mighty cute, and of course he's right."

_Flattery will get you nowhere, mister._ She giggled. _Really? He thinks I'm cute?_

"My God, yes. He draws pictures of you and hides them so his brothers won't find out that he's in love with you."

In love? Why do I have to help him? He'll be fine. He'll get over it. Now if you said Chris needed me, I'd be more than happy to help him out.

"You'd be helping Chris out by doing this. Trust me."

No I wouldn't. Chris wouldn't care.

"Chris will certainly care when one of his two brothers blows his brains out."

What? You lie!

"Because I lie so often? Maeve, Michael knows where his dad keeps his hunting rifle. Lately, when his parents aren't home, he's been sneaking into their room and getting real familiar with the mechanics of that damned rifle. The first time, he checked the chamber for a bullet and there was none. The next time, he sat on the bed and positioned the butt of the gun on the floor and pointed the barrel under his chin and used his toe to pull the trigger. He assumed there was no bullet, but it was only an assumption. Part of him hoped that there was a bullet inside. Nowadays, most of him wishes there had been a bullet in it. Michael knows where the bullets are, Miss Minnow, and the only thing that's kept his head attached to his body is his lack of courage. That courage is well under way."

Why would he do that? What's so bad that he'd want to kill himself over?

"Asks the girl who once threatened to run into traffic. Michael thinks he's a freak. It's complicated, Maeve. It doesn't matter why, it just matters that he does. So how about it? Are you up to helping him? You just have to go visit him and pretend to think he's a nice boy, flirt a little if you're game."

If it will save his life, of course I'll help him. Poor Michael, I had no idea. Let's go over there now.

"Have I told you lately how much I love you? If the whole world was made up of Maeve Minnows, it would be heaven on earth."

Aren't you just the sweetest thing ever?

### Chapter 12

Maeve replied to her mother's text _, yes I'll come home for dinner now,_ and left Michael's house. Once the front door closed behind her she whispered, "Breuer? Are you here?" He manifested beside her and said yes. Her face was flushed. "Please tell me you weren't watching."

"I wish I could lie to you and say I didn't see it. Maeve, you are the most amazing woman in the world for doing what you did."

"I don't feel amazing. I feel like a hooker."

"Hooker? You surely brought new reason to live in Michael! You're a saint!"

"No I'm not. If you'd have been in my mind you'd know that after that first kiss I was doing things for me. Not him."

He grinned devilishly. "You like Michael after all?"

"I don't know," she said undecidedly. "I liked kissing him."

"As opposed to kissing all the other boys you've kissed?"

"You know too much about me. So what if it was my first kiss? I liked it."

"Good for you. How did you like the other stuff?"

Her face turned a deep shade of red. "It felt good when he touched me."

"It's supposed to. You're a good girl, Maeve. I was starting to think you were going to let him... you know. But then you smacked his hand when it went for your cookie jar."

She looked away from him. "I'm not going to have sex with him. We're too young and he's not my boyfriend."

"That didn't stop you from letting him go up your shirt, you little devil."

She checked to see if he was still leering at her. He was. "Stop looking at me. I'm embarrassed. I was saving his life, you know. Don't forget that."

"I won't. You have nothing to be embarrassed about. Did you see him stare at your boobs? If he'd have found the Holy Grail he wouldn't have reacted any differently."

"You're so mean sometimes. And you better not have looked at my boobs."

"Oh honey, I've been with you for four years: I've seen it all. You and plenty before you. Sex isn't my thing, you know that. Seeing your body fills me with appreciation for the aesthetic beauty of the human physique, but I don't have the requisite hormones to consider it anything other than art. I hate to ask for another favor, but I need one. Last thing for a long time, I promise."

### Chapter 13

Michael knocked on his neighbor's door. Mae answered with a coy grin. He asked if she wanted to hang out for a while. She accepted the offer. Rebecca came from the laundry room to see who had knocked, discovered the nice young neighbor boy chatting idly with Mae. "Hello, Michael," Rebecca said cordially. "Is there something I can do... or?"

"No thank you, ma'am. I'm here to see Mae."

"Oh." Then, _"Oohh,"_ with a grin. "Can I get you something to drink?"

"I'm fine."

"We'll be in my room," Mae said. She led him to her room and closed the door. "So what's up, Michael?"

"Not much. I, I just wanted to see you again. I really liked that you came over the other day and was kind of hoping that you would've come over again yesterday or today, but it's cool. You're probably busy or something."

_Breuer, you here?_ No response. _Yo, Breuer? Is Michael trying to get to third base or what?_ She giggled, alerting Michael. "Yeah, I've been busy." She rolled onto her bed and propped her head up with a cocked arm.

"Can I lie next to you?" he asked. She nodded. He kicked his shoes off and did the same as Mae, faced her.

"I'm sorry about the other day," she said.

"For what?"

"Doing what I did. Or should I say, letting you do what you did. I'm not like that."

"Oh. That's okay. I'm sorry, too. I shouldn't have tried to undo your pants. It's just that, well, I've never been with a girl before. I mean, I've never even kissed a girl. I guess I was just a little curious, and you seemed okay with what we were doing. It was rude of me and I'm sorry. Won't happen again."

"Keep your voice down," she whispered. "I don't want my mom thinking we're doing that kind of stuff. I'll turn the TV on for some noise." She reached over, snatched the remote off the night-stand and turned the television on. Channel thirteen's six o'clock news was on. She turned the volume up a good deal. "Yeah right it won't happen again," she teased. "You're here, aren't you?"

"Yes, but only to hang out. I don't want to kiss you."

"Really?" she said doubtfully. He nodded. "We'll see about that." She reached in for a kiss: he kissed her. After a moment the kissing became more passionate, then Mae felt a hand on her stomach, and it was moving upward. She broke away from the kiss and said, "See!"

As if he just fathomed what he had done, he blurted, "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to! It was an automatic response, I swear!"

She bit her grinning lip, gave him a playful slap across the face, too gentle to hurt. "At least you didn't go for my pants again, pervert."

He nodded in shame. "Are you mad? I would be if I were you."

"Not at all. I like kissing you." Her cheeks blushed as she said, "I even liked the other thing."

"Really? Cool. It was more curiosity than anything. I've seen a picture of boobs, but that's all. And yours are really nice, especially for your age. Thanks for being so understanding."

"I've never had a boyfriend—not that I'm hinting!—so I've never been touched like that. And I was a little curious, too. A lot curious. So we aren't all that different, are we?"

"If there's anything else I can do for you, in the name of science, just let me know."

Mae laughed; Michael laughed. "Okay. Well since it's in the name of science, I wouldn't mind seeing what it looks like." She brought her hand to the fly of his jeans and felt around for the zipper. A flap covered it. She tried to work it out of the way, inadvertently stimulating and igniting a flood of hormones in Michael. He moved in to kiss her but she pulled back. "Nuh-uh. No kissing in science class." She finally got a hold of the zipper and unzipped it, sought to unbutton his pants but a buckle was in the way. It was slow-going in science class.

Quickly, as if his life depended on it, he got off the bed and unlatched his belt buckle, yanked the belt from his waist and doubled it over to set it aside. It was still in his hand when Mae gasped. She backed herself flat against the wall and gaped at Michael with wide lidless eyes.

"Mae? What's wrong?"

"W-what are you going to do with that?"

"With this?" He brandished the belt. The brown leather loop flopped from one side to the other like a caught snake. She trembled.

"Jesus Christ. Do you think I'm going to hit you with it?" She didn't answer, but her expression did. "Did... did you get hit with a belt?"

Eyes to belt, to eyes, to belt.

He tossed the belt to the floor, returned to the bed. "What happened? Do your parents whip you?"

She rolled over to face the wall. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Okay. I'm sorry for scaring you."

"You didn't know."

Before telling Michael that he'd best be going home, she heard a familiar name on the channel thirteen newscast. She turned back over and angled toward the TV.

"Howdy-howdy, Maeve!" Breuer said from in front of the TV. "How's it going?"

"Move out of my way! I can't see the TV!"

Michael apologized for being in her way (even though she wasn't speaking to him) and faced the TV as well, to see what had stolen Mae's attention.

Mae glowered at Breuer, tapped a finger to her head. _Get out of the way, Breuer!_ He moved. "I know that man!" Mae exclaimed. A priest was being interviewed by a news personality. The script below the priest named him Father Stadt. He said:

"It's a shock to all of us in the church. It's a shock to the whole community. All I can say is this: it will never happen again. When parents drop their kids off at church they do so with the belief that they are in the hands of God, not the hands of a predator. I spoke with Cardinal Waters this afternoon and was assured that the Catholic church would do everything in its power to cooperate with the police and the investigation to see to it that Father Imhoff—excuse me, _Mister_ Imhoff—never wears the Catholic robes again; never steps foot inside a church again. This is simply incomprehensible, devastating. My heartfelt apologies and everlasting shame to the children and parents who unwittingly put their trust in the evil being of Mister Imhoff."

Breuer, you better start talking.

"Not now, Mae-Vee. We have company, remember?" He pointed at Michael, who was watching the news report with mild interest. Maybe he was curious as to how Mae knew this priest.

"You should probably get going now," Mae said to her hormonal neighbor. "Maybe I'll stop by later or something."

After he left, Mae waited until the end of the broadcast before demanding that Breuer explain himself.

"Could you not look at me like I'm the pedophile, please? What are you upset about? This has nothing to do with you helping Father Stadt the other day."

I find that hard to believe. When you and I went to that church, there were only two priests there. Fathers Stadt and Imhoff. When I had Stadt drive me home, that left Imhoff alone with those boys. How is that not related? Remember, you can't lie to me!

"First of all, I can lie to you but choose not to. I respect you too much to lie. Maeve, I don't know the future. I know you think I do, but honestly I don't. That would be magic, and what I do is use my mind. All I know is from observing the present and guessing, predicting. Father Stadt needed to help a kid in crisis. He was questioning his usefulness to the church and considered leaving. He's a good man. The church needs people like Father Stadt. By you lying to him that you ran away and that you are godless, that gave him a chance to share the Word of God with you and convince you to go back to your parents. He needed that, just like Michael needed a reason to live. I can't help it if some sick pervert took advantage of the situation. I'm just as appalled as you. If I'd have known, I never would have asked you to do what you did. Okay?"

You swear?

Breuer crossed his heart and nodded.

Then why didn't you tell me the other day that this happened? Why did you stand in front of the TV? You didn't want me to know.

"That's right. I didn't want you to know. I knew you'd be mad at me. I don't know what I'd do if you decided you didn't want me around anymore."

Not possible. You know I love you no matter what. You're my guardian angel.

"What did I tell you about calling me that?"

_You said you loved it._ She smiled playfully. _You said you're my guardian angel forever._

"It doesn't bother me, as long as you know it isn't true."

Read the definition of guardian angel and tell me that's not you. Until you properly explain yourself to me, I don't know what else to think.

"I have properly explained myself. I'm a person like anyone else. Just because I'm not human doesn't make me a guardian angel."

_Breuer?_ She had a contemplative frown. _How did you know that we'd hit head-on with that rig? How did you know that I wouldn't die?_

"Wow. I never thought I'd hear you ask that. Like the wand, it's a magic trick, Minnow, nothing more. Well, a little more. I know things. Can read thoughts. But I can't see the future any more than you can see it. So I hope you won't be upset with me when I confess that I took a chance with the station wagon accident. The way I saw it, if you'd have died you wouldn't have been any worse off than you were with those monsters. I thank God every day that you did live. You're the world to me."

### Chapter 14

A few weeks after the church scandal, Mae was walking home from school and called out to Breuer, hoping he'd appear skipping beside her. He didn't, and hadn't for five days running. I'm sure he'll have a good reason, she told herself.

When she got home, her mom called her into the kitchen and asked if she wanted to help her whip up a batch of peanut butter cookies. Mae agreed, but only if she could lick the rubber spatula afterward. As her mom measured out the flour, she said, "What's the deal with you and Michael? You haven't been going over there lately and I haven't seen him here."

"I know. We did some kissing and stuff," she said thoughtlessly, "he's not depressed anymore."

She dumped the flour in the mixing bowl. "That's a peculiar thing to say. Is everything all right?"

"Yeah. He felt unwanted or ugly or something. I made him feel attractive, while making sure that he knew that I wasn't looking for a boyfriend. We're friends now." She gave her mom an exaggerated smile and pinched her cheek.

"In a weird mood, are we? Speaking of you and Michael, and kissing and stuff—whatever that entails—we haven't had the big talk yet, and since your father is working overtime today, I was hoping we could chat a little."

"The big talk? Oh no. Please tell me you aren't referring to the birds and the bees."

"I know you're a little old for it, but since you've been spending time with Michael, I wanted to be sure that you didn't have any questions about it, and tell you the pros and cons of love-making, specifically the cons, so you'll be safe and hopefully make the right decisions."

"Mom, seriously? I'm fourteen years old. Almost fifteen. I could have a three-year-old kid already."

"I should have brought this up years ago. You're right."

"Lisa already told me everything about it. But you got me wondering now. What do you consider to be a pro of having sex. I have no doubt you can give me a dozen cons."

"The pros?—it's wonderful when you find someone you love and marry. If it wasn't for sex, I wouldn't have my precious little Mae." She touched the top of Mae's head.

"That's it? You missed two that I can think of: if you get pregnant, no periods for nine months. And the biggest one?—feels good."

Rebecca dropped her spoon and with a hand on her hip faced her daughter. "Don't tell me. Please don't tell me that you've—"

"No, mom. I'm not sexually active. Geez. Not anymore, anyway."

Impulsively Rebecca slapped Mae across the face. Before Mae could react to it, she was enveloped in her mother's arms and being issued apology after apology. Rebecca waited for the torrent of tears that was undoubtedly on the way. She was a Clark, after all, and Clark's love a good cry.

"I was joking, Mom," Mae said through the fabric of her mom's shirt. "I haven't hooked-up with anyone." They pulled apart; Rebecca saw that there were no tears. A big pink blotch on her cheek from the slap, but no signs of distress or dismay.

"There is no excuse for what I just did. Please forgive me. Your father and I swore we'd never raise a hand against you."

"It's okay, I forgive you. I won't tell dad, all right? He'd probably get mad at you."

"You'd do that for me?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't I? It was a fluke thing."

She hugged her daughter again. "I'm so lucky to have you, sweetheart, and I love you more than life." After the hug Rebecca said, "Slap me. Go ahead, slap me as hard as you can. I deserve it and I'll feel a lot bet—"

Thwack!

Rebecca stared dumbfounded at Mae for a moment, then cracked up. Mae wasn't so quick to make light of what she'd just done on a whim. She wondered what her punishment might have been with her last set of parents, and decided it would surely mean old blacky, mostly her face, and a week off of school as her flesh healed. My how things changed. Mae allowed herself to laugh.

"I deserved it," her mother said. "And thank you for keeping it in your pants. Michael's a handsome boy."

"My pleasure," Mae said. Then tried her luck at humor: "Or lack thereof."

Rebecca checked her recipe while muttering, "You're not missing out on much."

"Eww, Mom. I don't want to picture you and dad."

"I just meant that you'll be enjoying your time alone—if you know what I mean—a good deal more than with your future husband. That's all."

"Oh... my... God. Gross. Stop it. How about them Giants?"

"Okay, new subject. Actually, no, let's go back to the no periods for nine months comment. Not everyone has cramps as badly as you."

"Lucky me. I hate it, it feels like someone's stabbing me in the guts with an ice pick."

"It's not fair, I know. I used to have them really bad, too. But I take something that helps a lot. Your father and I decided that we're going to let you take what I take. Don't get the wrong idea, booger, but it's birth-control pills."

"You're putting me on the pill?"

"It's for reducing the effects of PMS, not licensing you to have intercourse at will."

"Thanks for thinking I'm a tramp."

"Shush. I know you wouldn't take advantage of the situation. I'm just saying, a lot of women take them for that reason. Cramps. They'll be mailed to me every three months and I'll give them to you daily. Sound good?"

"If they work, heck yeah. Don't I need to see the gynecologist first?"

"Nah. Being that your uncle is a doctor, we don't have to worry about things like that. But you'll still be going to the lady doctor yearly. And you're going to have to lie about being on the pill. Doctors aren't fond of medicine being prescribed behind their backs by family members."

"Okay." She reflected on what she'd just been told. "Why give them to me daily? Just give me all of them and I'll do it right. I'm not a dumb kid. I'm a woman, you know."

"Because I said so. End of story. New subject: curfew. Be home before dark from now on."

"What?"

"Watch the news, you'll see why. Another murder. Two actually—husband and wife. This time on Alvarado Street. Couldn't be more than two miles down the road."

"Really? Not from the same guy, or were they?"

"They think it's the same guy. And since there are no ties between the victims of the two attacks, it might be a serial killer."

### Chapter 15

Mae sat at her desk with the bedroom door closed. She opened her math book. Breuer manifested and hopped up on the desk corner. "We need to talk," he said gravely.

"Where the heck have you been?"

"No more speaking to me, Maeve. All thinking from now on. Do you know what your folks went and did?" She shook her head. "They aren't getting you birth control pills. That was a lie. They think you're crazy. The pills that your mom will be giving you are for crazies."

Nuh-uh. Really?

"Really. Your dumb-ass uncle already wrote the prescription. Well, to his credit, he told your mom that it wasn't a good idea, but she is a persistent one. These pills are a problem. They are mind altering. The Minnow whom I've come to know and love will become someone else. Ever watch a zombie movie? Yes, I know you have. Night of the Living Dead. You're going to be like that. A zombie. No thinking for yourself, just a mind-numbed girl who does as she's told. You don't want that, do you?"

Of course not! I won't take them!

"Atta girl. You promise me you won't take them?"

Duh! Why would I want to?

"They aren't going to like you refusing to take them, that's why. They'll make you. You're going to have to act. Pretend that you think they're birth control pills and when your mom gives you a pill, put it in your mouth and pretend to swallow it. Then go to the bathroom and flush it down the toilet. Don't hide them, they'll probably find the stash. Sound like a plan?"

She gazed vacantly at the wall before her, shook her head in disgust. _She lied to me about the pill? Why can't they be honest with me? If it wasn't for you, I'd be taking zombie pills. It's like I'd be dead; someone else would replace me. Sort of. Isn't it?_

"Very perceptive of you. That's exactly what it would be like."

She got out of her seat and stepped to Breuer on the ledge of the desk and hugged him. _What on earth would I do without you, Breuer? Thank you so much for watching out for me. If I ever find a husband who cares for me half as much as you do, I'll be the luckiest woman alive._

"You're too kind, Mae-Vee. I'll tell you what, I'll keep an eye open for a good suitor for my little Minnow. I'll scout for you. Only the best, too."

### Chapter 16

Tag poured himself a cup of coffee and looked up to a another new face. This one was hard on the eyes. She flashed a coquettish grin at Tag and ordered "whatever's good." He began mixing a strawberry margarita and said, "What sounds good right now is bed."

"Oh yeah? Is that the house special? Maybe I'll have that." She giggled, sounded like a pig in heat.

Tag felt his gorge rise. He placed a drink in front of her and asked for I.D. She handed it to him: Ingrid Dechesne, twenty-one, organ donor. I bet she is, Tag thought. He handed it back and said, "That'll be four bucks."

"I hope you charge less for the house special." Another bleating squeal from the pig. No shame. _Why'd I have to open my big mouth?_

"So now that you know my name, what's yours?"

"Tag."

"Is there a Misses Tag?"

"God yes."

She stared dubiously at him before engaging in Chico tradition. "You're just saying that."

"Even if I was, wouldn't that be hint enough to stop flirting?"

She laughed, a pig with mule spliced in. "You're funny."

He took her money, opened the register and muttered, "Not trying to be funny."

"If you have a girlfriend, what's her name?"

"Molly." He quickly amended, " I mean Mae."

She cackled like a hyena. She was a weeks worth of National Geographic television. "I knew you were lying." She took the seat closest to Tag and settled in with every intention of making this night as long as possible for him.

"Molly's my ex," he explained. "You know how that goes."

Her face said she didn't. Her smirk said he was full of shit.

"You want to know the God's-honest?" he asked. "I'm in love with Mae." Under his breath: "Now fuck off."

"Uh-huh, I bet. I'm sure she's real."

"She's twenty, five-six, dark hair, blue eyes with a fringe of amber, pale complexion; Mae's the most beautiful woman imaginable."

"Imaginable sounds about right. You have a good imagination, don't you?"

"Not a day has gone by in the last two years that I haven't spent time with her. I'd marry her if I could."

"So then why don't you?"

"It's complicated."

Understatement of the century.

### Chapter 17

Rebecca listened at her daughter's bedroom door. She was certain she had heard Mae giggle. She thought it may have been the TV, but now she knew that the TV wasn't on—or the volume was all the way down. She waited another moment and was startled when the door opened and a suspecting Mae was glowering at her. "Listening at the door, Mom?"

"I heard laughter." She barged in and looked at the TV: off. Stereo: off. "Why were you laughing, Mae?"

"I wasn't. You must have hallucinated it," she said mockingly.

"Don't take that tone with me. You've been taking your birth-control pills, right?"

"What do birth-control pills have to do with the price of tea in Tennessee? Or me laughing? And you watch me take the pills. Every day. Because I'm a stupid little kid who can't be trusted with big-girl pills."

"Watch your mouth. You're getting lippy. Are you still seeing your imaginary friend?"

"No. I gave him up."

"Good." Rebecca turned away.

* * *

The following morning at the table Rebecca placed a pink pill beside Mae's bowl of oatmeal, as had become the routine. Mae dug into her oatmeal. Mom sat pretending to read the paper. When Mae finished eating she put the bowl in the sink and ran water in it. Then returned for the pill, popped it in her mouth, sipped juice, walked away. She went to the bathroom where she found Breuer waiting. "Don't flush it," he warned. Mae spit it in the toilet and asked why. "Guess who followed you? She suspects that you aren't taking your pills." Mae flushed the toilet anyway and shrugged. "You better care. Don't make this any harder than it has to be, Mae-Vee."

Mae opened the bathroom door to her mom, arms crossed. "Why?" Rebecca sounded hurt or offended; probably both. "Why would you do that?"

"Don't tell her that you know what they are," Breuer cautioned. "She'll wonder how you know and press you with questions."

"Do what? I didn't do anything."

"You flushed your pill. Don't lie to me."

"Ha! Why don't you try leading by example?" Mae said thickly.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Shit, why did you have to go and say that?" Breuer said. "Watch what you say."

"Nothing. I didn't flush the pill. I swallowed it. I just had to pee."

"That was an awfully quick pee. So you're sticking with that? That you swallowed the pill?"

"Yes."

"You don't have any issues with taking the pill?"

"None."

"Okay. Follow me." She was kitchen bound.

Mae looked to Breuer for answers. Breuer had a look: the world is falling apart at the seams, it said. She followed her mother to the kitchen. Rebecca opened her purse and produced another pink pill, handed it to her daughter. "Take it."

"But I already took one. Isn't it bad to take two? Maybe I'll overdose."

"No, doesn't work that way. You can take two. And I think we both know you didn't take the other one, so that doesn't matter anyway. Swallow it."

"Put it under your tongue and pretend to swallow it," Breuer suggested.

She popped it in her mouth, rolled it under her tongue and took the glass of orange juice, mostly empty, and drank it. "There. Happy?"

"Did you swallow it?" she asked.

"Duh."

"Open your mouth."

"You don't trust me? That hurts my feelings."

"I could say the same thing to you. Open your mouth."

"Don't do it." Breuer sounded desperate. "Cause a scene. Anything."

It was too late. Mae swallowed the pill. She opened her mouth to show her mom.

She probed her mouth. "I saw you just swallow it, but I need to be sure you didn't fake that, too."

Mae's mouth was still being searched when she began crying, taking her mom by surprise.

"Don't cry," Rebecca said. "I'm not mad at you." Under her breath: "A little frustrated, maybe."

She closed her mouth and looked up at her mother. "I don't want to be a zombie."

Breuer shook his head, threw his hands up _(all is lost)_ and walked away.

"A zombie? Why would you say that?"

Mae turned away and swiftly left the house, grabbing her book bag by the door. Her mother told her to stop to no avail. Mae reached the sidewalk and looked back, now bawling. Her mother wasn't following her. Breuer was. "Stop crying, Minnow. Let's put our heads together here. We'll get through this. One pill isn't going to make you a zombie."

"How do you know? I think I feel it working."

"Impossible. I'd ask you to throw it up, but I don't think it matters. One dose isn't the end of the world. But you must, _must_ miss every dose from now on." With his hands folded at the small of his back he sighed and openly wondered what they were going to do about this problem.

* * *

The next morning Mae took a seat at the table. Breuer then took a seat beside her. Rebecca was reading the paper across from Mae. Mae looked around her bowl for the pink pill that wasn't there. "Don't bother looking," Breuer said solemnly. "Rebecca is getting craftier by the day. She ground it up and put it in your orange juice."

No way! That's so sneaky!

"Tell me about it. We have a serious problem here, Maeve. Serious."

What should I do?

"Don't drink it. She'll throw a fit. I don't know what will happen. She'll make you drink it. You could knock it over, but she'll just make another."

I'll drink it after I eat my oatmeal, then I'll go to the bathroom and throw it up.

"Yeah, you could try that. I suspect that she'll follow you and see if that's what you're going to do, though."

Yeah. She's way too sneaky for her own good. I'll throw up on my way to school then.

"Excellent. That's my smart little Maeve Minnow."

Mae ate her oatmeal and said nothing to her mom. She put her bowl in the sink and ran water in it. Her glass of juice was still untouched on the table. Her mom was pretending to read, but was very much watching Mae. Mae drank the glass of juice in full, hoping it would gorge her to the point that vomiting would be that much easier. She put the glass in the sink and said goodbye to her mom.

"Mae?" Rebecca said and put the paper down. Mae stared undecidedly at her. "Aren't you going to ask why there's no pink pill this morning?"

"Oh yeah. That's right."

"You forgot about it?"

"Yep."

Rebecca fixed a ruminative stare at Mae, then bade her a good day at school today.

"You too. Bye." Mae headed for her book bag. Breuer was muttering something in utter disappointment.

"Stop," Rebecca said. Mae stopped, felt tears welling in her eyes. It wouldn't be long before she was a zombie. "You still haven't asked about the pill. You don't seem the least bit concerned about it. What gives?"

"Why is there no pill this morning?"

"You're a terrible liar," she said.

"And you're a rotten liar," Breuer said to Rebecca.

"What I'd like to know is how you knew. You know what I did, don't you?" She wasn't asking as much as she was telling; a rhetorical question.

"No." Mae was crying full-bore now. Tears of impending doom.

"But you still drank the juice," her mother said, as though she were a detective trying to crack a murder case. "The whole glass, too. You never do that. What's the plan, missy?—going to the bathroom to throw it up?"

Mae shook her head, and without thought flung herself on her mom and hugged tight. "I'm sorry, Mom. I'm sorry for lying." Tears streamed. "Don't hate me."

"I don't hate you!" She squeezed Mae. "I love you more than anything. I just wish you'd trust me."

"I will. I'm sorry."

"Let's wait for those tears to dry up, and then I'll give you a ride to school, okay?"

Mae nodded. When she thought about how she wouldn't be able to throw up the juice, the crying worsened. She was going to become a zombie. There was no avoiding it now.

Breuer rarely showed up at school, but today he was seated at the cafeteria bench waiting for Mae. She sat beside him and said, _Fancy seeing you here._

"That was pretty pathetic this morning. You're sorry? For lying to her? She's the dishonest one."

I know. Sorry, Breuer, I caved in. I didn't mean to.

"I know you didn't. It's okay. Two doses isn't the end of the world. But I worry about tomorrow and every morning after. What are we going to do?"

No clue. I've been thinking about it all morning. I don't know.

"Me too. All my solutions are a little violent."

Violent? Don't you dare think about hurting them! They're my parents, like it or not! I love them!

"I won't, don't worry. I know you love them."

I do. They're a billion times better than the dead ones. They have their problems but who doesn't?

"I'll give it some more consideration. I'll think of something. But aside from that, how's life treating my love?"

It's all right. There's a boy who sits next to me in class, he's kinda cute. He's shy, though. I doubt he'll ever talk to me.

"Zach?"

You know everything!

"I'm smart, what can I say? He's shy, all right. Don't count on him ever asking you out. He has a really small wiener, anyway."

Mae laughed. A few kids in the area looked over at her. _You saw his wiener?_

"No. But I heard him wishing he had a bigger one."

That's too funny.

"Remember when I said that I'd find a good guy for you?"

You found one? Who?

"His name is Trent. He lives over in Roseville, but that doesn't matter because he has a car."

Oh yeah? He's older then. Sixteen?

"Not exactly. He's eighteen."

Eighteen? You're crazy, Breuer!

"So what. What's in an age? I'm thousands of years old and you like me, right?"

No.

Breuer's eyes widened.

_I love you._ She smiled; he returned it.

"You'll be fifteen soon, before he turns nineteen. Three and a half years isn't a big gap. Besides, what matters is that he'd adore you. Love you, even. He's strong, handsome, smart. Very smart. He's a freshman in college and has his own apartment and car. He doesn't have a job but he doesn't need one: his father died from an oil-rig accident when Trent was young and between his life-insurance and the lawsuit, his mom is sitting on a couple million dollars. She spoils him rotten. He'd spoil you rotten."

How do you know he'd even like me?

"Call it intuition. I've been whispering good things about you in his ear."

_You have not!_ She giggled.

"Well I do have pretty good intuition. I happen to be quite sure he'd like you. He's an athlete, too. Baseball. Doesn't play in college, just an intramural league, but he's good at it. This evening his team is playing. How would you like to go watch the game and see him?"

Uh, I don't know. All the way in Roseville? How would I get there? That's far.

"His team is playing Sacramento and the game is here. I wouldn't suggest something that was impossible, you know that. It's on the other side of town, but we'll take the bus. You can tell your parents that you're going to Lisa's house to spend the night. They'll say yes because it's Friday. What do you think?"

What about when the game's over? I'll be home at night and they'll know I didn't go to Lisa's.

"You need to learn how to stretch the truth, Minnow. You tell them that you got in an argument with Lisa and decided to come home."

You're good at lying. Too good.

"I prefer to call it fibbing. Lying is such an ugly word."

Breuer, you know what I like most about you?

" _Ooo,_ I like this question. What do you like most?"

It's not easy, because what's not to like? But I love how you treat me like an adult. You'd never search my mouth for medicine. I hate being treated like a friggin kid.

### Chapter 18

Breuer rode the bus with Mae across town to the new field on the other side of town. Mae was glad she brought a coat because it was a chilly one. It wasn't the temperature as much as it was the wind. The March wind blowing from the north has a dewy weight attached to it that chills to the bone.

It was dusk by the time they made their seats on the bleachers. There were only a handful of others present. Before she could ask, Breuer answered, "It's early. The game isn't for another hour. I thought we'd get here early so you could let Trent see how cute you are."

How much you want to bet he doesn't even notice me?

"You'd lose. See the guy out in right field? The guy who just threw the ball?"

_Him?_ She pointed.

"Don't point. People will think you're crazy. You're all alone here, remember that. And yes, that's him. What do you think?"

_It's hard to see him from here. Let's move closer. Over to those bleachers._ She pointed.

"Thanks for heeding my advice." She apologized. "Okay, let's go over there." They relocated to the bleachers closest right field. "What do you think of Trent?"

He's... he's cute. Really cute. Way too cute for me.

"Ye with so little faith."

I haven't heard you say that in forever!

"And you still haven't any faith. My turn to say it: you know what I like most about my li'l Maeve Minnow?" She shook her head. "You have no idea how beautiful you are. Inside and out. Especially out. Especially in. Both. You're one in a million."

She met eyes with Breuer. _You mean that, don't you?_

"If I'm lying I'm dying. You're only fourteen, which is an awkward age for most kids."

Almost fifteen.

"Okay, almost fifteen. People your age tend to have oily skin and pimples-a-plenty, beaver-like teeth, faces are usually puffy and red from the influx of hormones. But you have the refined beauty of a college woman. A beautiful one, at that. He won't know you're fourteen. He'll probably guess you're seventeen. Maybe eighteen. Tell him you're older than you are if he asks."

No. I'll tell him the truth if he asks. It's not good to start a relationship off on a lie.

"Did I raise you well or what? You're something else, Mae-Vee."

Likewise, my little Buster Bottom.

"Buster Bottom?"

Oh, so you can call me li'l Maeve Minnow but I can't call you Buster Bottom?

"I'm eternally yours. You can call me God, you can call me Buster Bottom, you can call me the Fonze if it makes you happy."

_Sit down, Fonze, you're making me nervous._ She fixed on Trent and thought, God, he's really hot. And I could use a little warmth, it's freezing.

"It is cold out," Breuer agreed. "I hate the cold. I'll be right back." He disappeared.

Mae rubbed her hands together and blew on them. The lighting was ridiculously bright. It reminded her of Field of Dreams. There wasn't any corn around, but the lighting and field looked the same. She couldn't stop staring at Trent. His clingy baseball pants might have been a gift to her from God Himself. They sure accentuated his butt nicely, she thought. What a butt! And eighteen-years-old, to boot. He could go buy a pack of cigarettes and a lottery ticket on his way to the recruiting office to join the Marines. She, on the other hand, had to be watched taking her medicine because she was a bad child who couldn't be trusted. She hated her life. Not really, but for a second she did, when she compared it to how wonderful Trent's life must be, going to college in his car and spending his mom's millions of dollars.

_There isn't a snowball's chance in hell that Trent would give two shits about me. Breuer, I'm afraid that you're wrong on this one_.

For once in her life, she'd be right and Breuer would be wrong. But damn how she hoped Breuer would be right about Trent. Those arms, those strong arms that had lines on them when his muscles flexed. Those arms would feel so wonderful wrapped around her. Those full luscious lips would feel even better, peppering her with kisses all over. _All_ over. Well, not everywhere. Not yet, at least. Not until she was at least sixteen. That's what Breuer recommended and she thought he was right. As always.

Then it happened. After Trent threw the ball to some ancillary character in her love story, he glanced at Mae in the bleachers. Then back to the guy he was playing catch with. A second later he was looking at Mae again, and this time he smiled at her. She smiled back and felt a beehive split open in her stomach. Her hands were folded together and propping up her chin. She unfolded them to give him the slightest little wave, unsure if he'd see it from a hundred feet away. But he did, because he waved back. Her breathing deepened. Oh my goodness, Trent. Will you marry me? Oh me, oh my, what a handsome looking guy. Let me and I'll love you till I die.

Breuer appeared beside her. "I see love is in the air."

Were you listening to me? What did I say about that?

"We've been communicating that way all day. You can't suddenly decide that I shouldn't be listening in, and expect me to somehow know that."

Relax. Where did you go? You missed it. He noticed me and I waved and he waved back. He smiled at me and I thought I was going to pop. It's the sexiest smile I've ever seen!

"Didn't I tell you you'd like each other? And I didn't miss it. I saw it all."

You did? But you weren't here.

"I wasn't here. I was there." He nodded at Trent.

What? I didn't see you! What were you doing over by Trent?

"Just because you don't see me doesn't mean I'm not around. I make myself visible to you as a common courtesy. I didn't want to distract you by having you see me whispering in Trent's ear."

She gaped at Breuer. _You what? What the heck! Other people can hear you? What did you tell him?_

"Settle down! My Lord! I've told you a hundred times nobody but you can see me. People don't tend to hear me, either, but I find that some of what I say gets through on a subconscious level. Sometimes not. All I told Trent, basically, was to take a look at the girl over on the bleachers. I wasn't sure if he'd hear me, and don't know for sure that he did. If I was him I'd be looking at you all I could."

Can you read his thoughts?

"Why ask me what you already know?"

What does he think about me?

"Isn't it more exciting not to know? Like on Christmas morning? You don't want to know what you got. It's more fun having it be a surprise, is it not?"

Oh for Pete's sake. You're starting to sound more like Dad every day. Just tell me what he thinks of me.

"After that little comment? Forget it, Mae-Vee. You're on your own." Breuer smiled at her, kissed her on the cheek, and vanished.

_Ha-ha, very funny. Come back._ He did not. _Yo, Buster Bottom, where'd you go?_ She looked around and behind her: no Breuer. _Whatever. Fine, I'll enjoy the game without you. And by game, I mean Trent._ She smiled at Trent. He wasn't looking, but she smiled at him nonetheless. She gave another little wave at him but he didn't see it.

The coach called the team in from the field; they jogged his way. Trent glanced at Mae, his grin warmed her heart. The coach issued a little pep-talk. The bleachers were quickly filling up. The other team was out in left field throwing the ball around. They were ugly by comparison. So was the Roseville team, actually. All except their super-star Trent. He was probably the star of the team, she'd bet on it. She simmered into a sultry stare at Trent, who was facing away from her. She felt guilty for staring at his butt as much as she was, but it was his fault for having a perfect butt and wearing stretchy-pants. When he scratched his left butt-cheek, she wished she was his hand. She looked up from his butt to learn that he was now staring at her. Busted! Oh my God, how embarrassing! But he was grinning at her. A warm and kind grin, most sincere. Please ask me to be your girlfriend, Trent. Your wife. Your slave. Anything. Anything but strangers.

After the coach had said his bit, he dismissed the guys to do a lap around the field to combat the nasty chill in the air. The team jogged away, save for Trent who said something to the coach before sauntering toward Mae.

_No fucking way! No_ friggin _way, no_ friggin _way,_ she corrected.

Trent ascended two rows of the bleachers, was now heading directly toward her. Her heart was an engine in the red. She was burning up. She unzipped her coat without thought. The trapped heat from her torso wafted up to her cold face, and with it the musky scent of her perfume, which she hoped Trent would smell.

"Hi. I'm Trent."

"Hi," she squeaked, cleared her throat and tried again. "Hi. I'm Maeve. Mae. Mae Clark."

"Nice to meet you. Watching the game by yourself? Here alone?"

"Yes."

"You here to cheer on your brother? Boyfriend?"

"Neither. I'm just watching the game. You look good. I mean, you have a good arm. Both arms. You're probably pretty good."

"Nah. I'm all right. Not as good as I'd like to be. Listen, I assume you live here in Sac. As my jersey suggests, I live in Roseville, but Roseville's not that far. I wouldn't ask, except for that I noticed you looking at me. Could I take you to dinner and a movie?"

"I'd love that. But don't you have to play the baseball game?"

"I didn't mean right now." He grinned. She felt about two inches tall. Perhaps he understood that she was embarrassed, because he acted quickly to remedy it by saying, "I would love to go right now, but I have this dumb game. We can go tomorrow if you'd like. Or even after the game tonight. Which would you prefer?"

"My parents think I'm spending the night at my friend Lisa's tonight, so I don't need to be home at any specific time. Or at all, for that matter." _Why'd I just say that? Stupid!_ "So tonight would be best. I doubt my parents would let me stay out two nights in a row."

"Gotcha. You live with your parents still, eh? I don't know why that threw me off guard. I guess I just assumed that you're in college and live in the dorms or an apartment."

"You did not," she said affectedly and felt blood filling her cheeks.

"Why wouldn't I? Are you still in high school then?"

"Tonight sounds wonderful. I took the bus here, so I'll have to catch a ride with you, if that's okay."

"Give you a ride? To dinner and a movie? Are you sure you don't want to take the bus and meet me there?" It was light-hearted raillery.

"A ride would be great. I'll see you after you whoop Sacramento then. I'll be routing for Roseville."

"A Sacramento woman routing for us? I think I'm in love with you, Mae." His face was pure bliss. He touched her arm and walked away.

Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. He said he's in love with me. He thinks I'm a woman. This is too good to be true.

"I'm happy for you," Breuer said from beside her, startling her. "Sorry for sneaking up on you. I'm going to let you go, okay? The best things in life are better done without someone guiding you and holding your hand. You are a woman, you heard the man. You can handle yourself. I'm proud of you, Maeve. Be yourself tonight and have fun. If you need me, just call my name."

Okay. Thank you so much, Breuer. Really, this is the nicest thing you've ever done for me. What about getting home, though? Do I take the bus? Do they run that late? Probably not.

"Bus? Minnow, the lad has a car. He'll drive you home."

Oh that's right. I'm not used to associating with someone who has a car; who isn't a parent, that is. Thanks again. Love you.

"Love you, too."

He vanished for the night.

### Chapter 19

At the bottom of the third inning, Trent hit an inside-the-park homerun, sliding into home plate on a late (but good) throw from deep in the outfield. He was pronounced safe by the spirited ump and limped off toward the dug-out. Mae felt sick for him. Poor Trent!

Trent conversed with his coach, wincing as he worked his hamstring with both hands. He limped to the dug-out and took his big bag full of baseball stuff and ambled toward Mae on the bleachers. He waved her down. She hurried to him. He asked if she was ready to go: she was never more ready in her life.

Once they were distanced from the crowd, Mae said, "Is it bad? Is your leg hurt?" Trent said that it was fine, he just didn't want to wait another six innings to get to know her better so he faked it. She could scarcely believe what she was hearing.

He led her to his silver Audi convertible. It still had paper plates on it. It must have cost a fortune. He opened the door for her and she thanked him. And they say chivalry is dead. Ha! They obviously haven't met Trent. He put his bag in the trunk, got inside and started the car, summoned the rag-top by the push of a button, powered the seat-heaters, and jacked the climate control up to eighty-degrees on both sides.

He knew a great place to eat not too far from here, assuming she was okay with Mexican food. She wasn't a fan of Mexican food but she was Trent's biggest fan so she said yes, that would be nice.

They grazed on chips and salsa. The chips were warm and oily, not the cheap stuff they serve at Chipotle. The place was dimly lit with spacious high-backed booths eager to please, if privacy was your thing. Even in the meager light she could see the energy churning in his pale gray eyes. They were knowing eyes, the kind that made you nervous lying to because they'd know. Questions asked by the man behind them weren't to learn answers, but to gauge your character, how honestly you might answer them. There was no gentleness in them or any part of Trent's exterior. His strength was appreciable without example. Muscles were hard and compact, not bulky. If you were to compare the strength of, say, a lithe Bruce Lee type versus that of your standard jock swaggering out of Gold's Gym, you'd be surprised how much stronger the jock isn't. Tightly woven muscle fibers. Muscle density. Meatloaf versus beef jerky, Trent was a hundred-and-eighty pounds of dry hardened beef in a casing of the softest golden-brown skin—a result of playing outdoor sports his entire life. His slightly wavy hair was brown at the roots and sun-bleached sandy blond at its length, which straggled its way to mid neck, mid ear, mid eye. His hardness was balanced by a shave so close that you wondered if he was unable to grow a beard. Perhaps a beard wouldn't grow out of respect for the beauty and charm of the boyish face. He swept aside the renegade locks to better see Mae.

Trent wanted to know her story. She said as little as she'd get away with. She admitted to being in school, but not that she wouldn't start high school until fall. She mostly spoke of her interests, which were watching movies, playing X-box 360, performing magic tricks (that Breuer taught her, _shh!_ ) and drawing, though she wasn't very good at it. She redirected the conversation back his way.

He divulged what she already knew, thanks to Breuer. He was living in an apartment by himself and attending college. He didn't know what he wanted to be, but considered becoming a doctor. He claimed to have no memory of his father, which was fine because his mother said he was the abusive type and a total asshole. He wasn't that way until they were married, of course, as is always the case. The total asshole was nice enough to have a life insurance policy, though, and it came in handy when an accident took his life. A lawyer had read the story in the paper and actually reached his mother to encourage her to sue. An unethical attorney: who'd have thought? She hired him on the spot and months later they settled out of court for a small fortune. His mom was a recluse and rarely left the house. She was an alcoholic, which she'd never admit to, and possessed a hearty appetite for drugs, though not the kind from drug dealers. More like the kind that come in orange bottles inside stapled paper bags. She had several doctors with loose pens and Trent was sure that she doctor shopped.

Mae commented on her uncle being a doctor, how he wrote prescriptions that her mom asked for, and joked how Trent's mom would love Mae's uncle for that reason alone. "It could be a double wedding," she said with just the right amount of silliness. They both laughed. Her heart melted.

Mae regretted not thinking through what she revealed next. That her mom coaxed uncle Matthew into writing a prescription for birth control pills for Mae. She thought it hinted at sex. Unprotected sex without fear of consequence. She amended that she wasn't really taking the pill, that her mom had lied to her and was giving her some other pills. She couldn't believe she just said that, either. She was digging herself a hole and was headed straight for China. She then said that the pills weren't needed, that her mom thought she was whacko and figured crazy-pills were the only solution, "But I'm not crazy," she insisted. Mae listened to herself say that and wanted to die right then and there. _What the hell is wrong with me? Now he thinks I'm crazy. Just stop talking!_

Sensing her embarrassment, as Trent had a knack for doing, he rescued her once again by saying, "Isn't that just like parents to think their kids are nuts? They couldn't be more wrong about you. You are perfect in every measureable way, and I'd be remiss if I didn't tell you how painfully beautiful you are. A beauty whose equal I have yet to encounter, and likely never will."

"Thank you. But it's the restaurant, it has favorable lighting."

"So you're not usually this pretty?" She said no. "Hmm. Cause I could swear that you looked like an angel sitting in the stands, too."

"The lighting was favorable there, too. Or what's the word?—complimentary?"

Trent thought she had to be kidding. "So how do you look with typical lighting?"

"Not ugly. Not ugly at all. I hope that doesn't make me sound conceited, because I'm not. I know I have plenty of flaws, imperfections, blemishes—"

"So you're not pretty?" Trent interrupted.

"My dad say's that I'm still growing into myself." _Why? Why did you just say that?_

"Your dad is wrong. And cruel. If he implied that you aren't attractive yet because of your age, he's cruel. Speaking of age, how old are you?"

"What movie should we see after this?"

"I don't care. Whatever you want. Did you just change the subject on me?"

"I want to see Pirates of the Caribbean. Is that okay with you?"

"I've been wanting to see that, too. Awesome. Stop changing the subject."

"I've had a thing for Johnny Depp since I watched The Astronaut's Wife."

"I don't blame you. He's a looker. So how about you tell me—"

"When I take baths I fantasize about Johnny Depp. About him being in the tub with me." She had to take a bullet one way or another. It beat confessing that she was a kid.

"Oh yeah?" He hummed. "Interesting."

"Very. He scrubs my back and shaves my legs. Not once has he nicked me. And you know what he does that turns me on the most?"

"I'd love to hear."

"He never asks my age."

The waitress waited for Mae to finish speaking before taking their order. He ordered the carne asada burrito with a side of rice and beans and she'd have the same, thank you. Mae began ruminating over what she had said. God, it was horrible, just horrible. It made her sound like a slut, undeniably. But she'd have plenty of time to redeem herself if given an opportunity. The important thing was he seemed to forget about her age for the time being. All in all, it was worth it. But it was a topic that couldn't be ignored forever.

* * *

The movie ended. Neither had any idea what happened in the flick, other than a bunch of belligerent pirates were being rowdy and indifferent to the romance taking place in the theater before them. Her lipstick was smudged all over his face. She didn't remember how that came to be. It was awfully dream-like what had happened. Two hours felt like two minutes. She reflected a moment and recalled him touching her thigh, and maybe she touched his. But once that first kiss landed, that sting of the worst and best kind, it numbed her like the venomous bite of a spider. A good spider, mind you. A good poison, not like the kind she learned about on the Discovery Channel. What was it, the Brown Recluse spider? Yeah, that's the one. Also called the fiddleback spider because they're identifiable by a mark resembling a fiddle on their backs. Poison that suffuses the flesh unabated until their desired is all-consumed. If there was a kinder Recluse, perhaps a Pink Recluse, she could see how his kiss might be like its bite. What happened after that first kiss was a free-for-all of wet kisses and groping.

She regretted not one second of it, not one decision she had made all evening. He treated her like an adult and she felt like one. She may have been fourteen (almost fifteen) and was still growing into herself, still filling into her shoes and bra, but Trent didn't seem to notice or care. He was infatuated (if not downright enamored) by the woman—as he so justly deemed her. For all Trent knew, she just as easily could have been someone who sat beside him in Introduction to Science class, jotting down notes while leering at the handsome boy, praying to be asked out on a date. What they did during Pirates of the Caribbean could have been a late night study session that turned all hot and sexy on them, and from out of nowhere! And through no fault of their own. This was science, after all. The birds and the bees. The bite of a fiddleback spider. The weaving of love's web and those lucky enough to be ensnared within.

As they ambled to Trent's Audi, Mae wished she was eighteen. Hell, sixteen. Because she loved making out with him and felt things wonderfully new and peculiar. Maybe she felt a tinge of it with Michael, but let's be honest here: Michael was homework; Trent was the final exam. Was it hormones?—no doubt. Not even with Johnny Depp in the tub with her did she feel this way. Breuer thought sixteen was an acceptable age to lose one's virginity. She had agreed with him, but that was a long time ago. Before she was a woman, in fact. More importantly, that was before she met Trent. To Trent she was suitable to be in college, and she thought Trent was right about that. Just because her body wasn't eighteen didn't mean her soul wasn't. She'd have a hard time waiting a year or so to experience what had been on her mind since the Black Pearl came sailing onto the big screen; since her two heart-throbs thrust their swords forward in their conquest to plunder booty.

"Where to?" he asked as they fastened their seat belts. "Your house?"

"I guess."

He narrowed in on her. "That wasn't very convincing. My buddy Blake is twenty-one. I could have him buy us some beer and we could drink it at the park, or in the car, or at my place. Your call."

"I couldn't impose on you. I wouldn't want you to have to drive me home from Roseville tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

"Or whenever." She hated her fool mouth. Just let him do the talking. She had no idea what she was doing; the more she spoke the more he would sense that.

"I don't mind driving you home tomorrow," he said. She was now avoiding his eyes. "Lighten up. The minute you stop speaking from the heart and pretend to be someone other than who you really are is the minute that this date's over. You're by far the most interesting and beautiful girl I've had the pleasure of taking out. Don't lessen that. Okay?" He touched her knee. She could feel the strength in his hand.

She hung her head and whispered, "Okay."

"Where do you live? I'll take you home."

"I don't want to go home." She faced him. "I want to be with you."

"If you're sure that's what you want. You can sleep over and I'll be a gentleman, okay?"

"Meaning you won't touch me?"

"If that's what you want, yes."

"That's definitely not what I want."

"What do you want? Do you know?"

"The honest truth would lead to a question that I don't want to answer."

"What if I promised not to ask the question if you tell me?"

She appraised his candor. Peering into his gray eyes—they looked deep blue in the shadowy Audi cabin—she couldn't imagine him being anything less than wholly honest. "What I want is to be older. I feel like a damned kid. I can't escape it. It haunts me."

He nodded and put his hand on hers. "I understand you feeling that way. If I had to guess, I'd say you were the only one who thinks of you as a kid. Hell, I'm more of a kid than you. I play baseball for chrissake. Adults don't do that unless they're making millions a year." He flashed her a disarming grin that landed squarely on her chest, left-center.

"You're so sweet, Trent." She sandwiched his hand between hers and said, "You make me feel like a woman, as corny as that sounds. You make me feel like I want to feel: normal. Pretty. What I want is this: I want to be around you. With you."

"Then that's what you'll have." He started the car and threw it in drive. "It's about a thirty minute drive."

The freeway was dead at this late hour. The car moved effortlessly up to eighty miles-an-hour and was quiet as death. Following a somehow comfortable stretch of silence, Trent said, "I've been thinking with the wrong Trent." She silently wondered what that meant, but refused to bring to air her confusion, wouldn't further expose her naiveté if her life depended on it. "You've been avoiding telling me that you're underaged."

She nodded. "Yes."

"And the question that you didn't want me to ask is how old are you. I won't ask. I'll never do something that you disapprove of; this I vow to you. Do you feel like you're old enough to make the right decisions? Old enough to know better? Do you feel like an adult in a minor's body?"

"Yes, yes and yes."

"Then I don't care about anything else. You could be thirteen for all I care, as long as you are confident in your decisions."

"I'm older than thirteen."

He smiled at the black open road. "Like I said, doesn't matter to me. To me you're an adult and that's how I'll treat you."

"Thank you. I want to feel like one. I do feel like one, for the first time since..." She almost said ten but knew there would be questions following that she wouldn't enjoy answering. "For the first time in my life."

"For the _first_ time?" He looked over at her, reading into her ambiguous words. Her innocence was the brightest thing in the dark Audi cabin. "It will be your first time?"

"Yes."

"We don't have to do this."

"I know. I want to have the most memorable night of my life. Do you listen to country music at all?"

"That's a little random. Uh, yeah. A little."

"There's a song called Live Like You Were Dyin'."

"Tim McGraw. I like that song," he said.

"Tonight I want to live like I was dying. Can you accommodate me?"

He suppressed a smile. "You bet. I hope you aren't really dying." Her sober face gave him a horrible idea. "You _aren't_ dying. Are you?"

"Not literally."

He sat in silent perplexity for a moment. "Okay, I can't let that slide. What's that supposed to mean, not literally?"

"I'm concerned. About what lies ahead."

"Aren't we all?"

"I mean, I'm concerned about how I'm going to be once medication takes hold of me. I won't be the same."

"The crazy pills? They'll change who you are?"

"That's what I hear, from a reputable source, a reliable source. I'll become a zombie. The lights will be on but nobody will be home."

"And you have no say in this? You have to take them?" She nodded gravely. "So you want to experience some things before they turn off your lights?" Another grave nod. "May I be blunt? Harsh even?" She granted permission by way of a raised brow. "That's fucked up. Who the hell are your parents to turn off your lights?"

"They're... they're my parents."

"Bad parents. What if I had a talk with them?"

"What would you say?"

"I'd say that they got some screws loose themselves if they think some crazy pills are what's best for you."

She smiled. "Yes! I agree!" After imagining it she said, "You have no idea how bad they'd flip out if they saw you with me. Their little princess with an eighteen-year-old boyfriend?—four years older than their little angel?—they'd so flip out, you don't even know, Trent. Especially if they knew what I was about to do to you."

"Fourteen," he muttered in amazement. He then laughed over her last remark: _if they knew what I was about to do to you_. "Boyfriend, huh?" He looked over at her with a wry grin.

She didn't know how to respond to that. She didn't think one word of that soliloquy through. So she said nothing, let her body do the talking: she mirrored his playful and humored expression.

"We just met and you called me your boyfriend," Trent marveled.

"I didn't mean it. I say everything wrong, in case you haven't noticed yet. Nerves, I suppose."

"I think you did mean it, Mae. I most definitely think that you did mean it. And I'm not complaining. That doesn't bother me in the slightest. It has a nice ring to it."

"I'm glad you think so, because I can think of two people who wouldn't."

"As long as you aren't one of them, I don't give a rat's ass."

### Chapter 20

Tag wasn't surprised to find his roommate still awake at 3:00 A.M. and even less surprised to see that he'd been drinking all night. Kade was a freak of nature. Perhaps the only person on earth who ties-one-on before taking college exams for the purpose of performing better on them. According to Kade, if one drinks while studying, the best way to retrieve that stored information come test time is to replicate the environment in which it was learned.

"You've been drinking?" Kade asked, having smelled it on Tag. "Hell yes, you have. You're supposed to serve it, not drink it, hombre."

"That's the idea. Doesn't always work out that way."

"Right-on right-on. Have a beer with me."

"Pass. I've had more than enough. This girl suckered me into taking shot after shot. Then this other chick, who, no joke, looked like Wilson Phillips."

"Which one? There are three in the band. A fat one and two others."

"She looked like Wilson Phillips I said. The whole band. She kept buying me drinks."

"You've got to learn how to say no, man."

"Yes, I know. I should have said no. But she said she'd tip me five bucks on every shot I took: daddy's girl has a big allowance. When we closed she was waiting in the parking lot for me. What a night. I'm beat."

"Fat chicks need love too. Don't be a hater."

"God bless them. I hope they get plenty of love, deserve plenty of love, but it won't be me giving it to them. The other one was pretty cool. I told her that I write and it turns out that her brother writes for fun, too. She told me of a website, aspiringwriter-dot-com. People post their stuff on it and supposedly other writers read your stuff and review it and give you feedback."

"I knew you were full of shit when you said you wouldn't ever let anyone read your stuff again. You can't let a few dozen rejection letters piss in your Wheaties. Go grab a beer. I ain't letting you go until you have one with me."

Tag exhaled deeply. "All right, let's make it quick then."

"Quick it is. I'll pour 'em in cups and we can race."

"Whatever."

In his bedroom Tag changed into sweat-shorts and a tee-shirt. When he returned there were two large green plastic cups filled nearly to the top.

"Ready?"

"That's a lot of beer. How much beer is this?"

"Just one in each cup. It's an optical illusion because the cup is green and the beer is amber."

"That makes no sense, but whatever. Let's do it."

They took their cups and on the count of three tossed them back and chugged until empty. Tag gagged. "You asshole, what did you put in that? Vodka?"

Kade laughed. "Just a little. It was mostly beer."

"Dude, that's fucked up. I've had enough already. I had to drive home taking side-streets."

"Get the sand out of your vagina, Tagatha. Two shots and a beer is nothing."

* * *

Tag found the aspiringwriter website and was asked if he wanted to create an account or be an Anonymous Guest. He chose the latter. When he learned that he could only read and review items and not post any, he created an account. Luckily it was free because he had no intention of spending money on this endeavor. For a handle he decided on Tagwrites. First name: Tag. Last name: Baylor. Then he imagined his mother Googling his name and finding what he'd posted; then she'd phone him and convey her disappointment in him for using the F-word fifteen times in the first chapter alone. Tag changed Baylor to Taylor. He clicked on Portfolio and saw that he had ten slots allotted to him for uploading files.

A flutter in his stomach surprised him. Was he really getting excited over this? The thought of like-minded people reading his stuff was indeed exciting.

In the first allotted slot he chose his first novel, titled Red Trouble. It began uploading, then stopped. A notice informed him that the file size exceeded the maximum allowed. Then it offered him a solution: become a platinum member for the bargain price of $59.00 a year and he could then (and only then) upload until the cows came home.

"No thanks."

He attempted to upload his shorter novel with the same result. "What kind of retarded website is this?" He heard his slurred words and cursed Kade. He was sure he'd have a headache in the morning. Time to employ an ancient Chinese secret that his father had taught him: two aspirin, half a bottle of Pepto Bismol, and chase it with a glass of water with two teaspoons of salt. The room spun when he stood. "Holy crap." He staggered to the bathroom and took the first two ingredients, followed by a trip to the kitchen for the water and salt.

Before he made it back to his room he found himself smacking his lips and knew damn well what that meant. He dashed to the bathroom, turned the toilet-water pink. Another glass of salt-water, two more aspirin and the other half-bottle of Pepto later, he was back in his chair. "Now where were we?" A notice reminded him that they offered the perfect solution for a small fee. "What seems to be the problem here?—It's too big. Doesn't fit. That's what she said." He chuckled. "Fuck this website. I didn't want anyone reading my stupid shit anyway."

He had an idea: write something just for the site. Genius! A short story about... well, about whatever. True he had a dozen short stories already written, and those wouldn't be too large to upload (probably) but he didn't like that idea. Call it drunken spiritedness, but he wanted to create something for the occasion.

"Hmm." Well it's got to have Mae Clark as the heroine, that much was a given. He hadn't shared any adventures with Mae in a while and was proud, intoxicatedly proud, to admit that he missed her. What should it be about? He enjoyed writing relationship-drama, suspense, supernatural, just about anything but sci-fi and fantasy. "How about a romance piece? Hmm, that might be fun." But nothing too graphic. A little late-night Cinemax material perhaps. Nothing too raunchy. "Just go where it takes you. Easy enough."

He couldn't think of a scenario to base the story. Alcohol wasn't helping matters. He began writing a simple scene of Mae Clark driving a Dodge Ram (Ram would be symbolic) down a rustic country road. A squirrel crossed the street in front of her; she hit the brakes to spare its life, and consequently got rear-ended by a stud in a Corolla. It wasn't much of an accident, just some creased fenders. The driver was a handsome young lad by the name of... of Tag Baylor, of course. No, scratch that. Tag Taylor. Let's be consistent here.

His typing went from slow to moderate to incredibly fast. Typos were filling his black and white screen with a flurry of red marks (typo indicators). He'd fix those later. The story was going to be terrible, that was a given. Wouldn't be the first time, either. When Tag Taylor began kissing Mae Clark, he became strangely aroused. Fully aroused. After Tag had undressed her, he was downright horny. "Are you really that pathetic? Turned on by a story? I swear, the day I masturbate to the thought of Mae I'm checking into a nut-house."

### Chapter 21

Trent dropped Mae off three houses away from her home just before noon on Saturday. She got her lies in order on the drive home and felt prepared. Breuer greeted her at the curb immediately after Trent drove off. "Have a good time?" he asked.

"Yep. Were you there?"

"Believe it or not, I wasn't. A woman needs her privacy, a certain angel once told me."

"Aren't you just the bee's knees? You were right about Trent. I really like him. A lot."

"Glad to hear that. I really did avoid you two yesterday, so I'm a little curious how it went. Was he a gentleman? Did he keep his hands to himself unless you granted him permission? Oh, and you should probably stop speaking: we're getting close."

It's hard to say if he was a gentleman or not because there wasn't really an opportunity for him to be one. I went a little nuts last night. I was the aggressor. Me.

"Minnow, my sweet Maeve, I don't know if I like this. I thought we agreed on waiting until you were older. Sixteen or seventeen."

Of all the people who I thought would nag me about this, you were the last one I expected. Can't you be happy for me? I have a boyfriend whom I really like.

"I am happy for you. I just want what's best for you, and if you feel this is it, I am indeed happy for you."

_You're just jealous, admit it._ She made a funny face at him _. You wanted to be my first, didn't you?_

"Even if I had the proper equipment the answer would still be no. You're like a daughter to me. Well, more like a sister. I love you too much to want to desecrate you with such a filthy act."

Filthy? I don't think it's filthy.

"Humans usually don't. But I'll concede to being jealous. He's won your affection and that does hurt because I know I'll be spending less time with you."

Inside, David was sitting on the couch watching CNN. Rebecca came in from the kitchen with two glasses of iced tea, gave one to David and said, "Did you have a good time, kiddo?"

"Better than you'll ever know," Breuer muttered.

Mae struggled to hold back laughter. "Yes, Mom. I know you don't like me to stay out two nights in a row, but do you think you could make an exception this one time? Lisa's been having boy trouble and she could really use a friend right now. A shoulder to cry on."

"Can't she stay here?"

"She's more comfortable there. I like it over there, too. They have a trampoline in the backyard. And they have a Playstation 3 and an X-box 360."

"What do you think, Dad," Rebecca said to David.

"Sure. Friends are important. I'm happy to see you care for yours as much as you do."

"Thanks Mom, Dad. I'll leave here around seven, okay?" They nodded. She went to her room and closed the door.

"Did you tell Trent that your parents make you take crazy-pills?"

Why do you care?

"Just curious."

Yeah, I mentioned it.

"Was he mad that they would do that?"

He thinks it's F'd up.

"If you're adult enough to have sex, you're adult enough to say fuck, don't you think?"

I guess. Why do you want to know, Buster? What's on your mind?

"Just curious."

_You're being dishonest._ She stared at him, contemplated his intentions. _Did you think that he might get my parents to stop giving me the pink pills? Is that it?_

"You're growing up so fast," Breuer said inwardly. "Getting smarter by the day. I may have had a slight agenda in introducing you to Trent. He's the type who would come to your defense and reason with your folks to stop poisoning your soul with medication that you don't need."

And once again, you know everything. He mentioned that he'd like to have a chat with them, to tell them what they're doing is wrong. But you already knew that, I'm sure.

"I sure as hell did not! But I suspected that might be the case. Excellent. Atta boy, Trent!"

Don't get your hopes up. He didn't say he would, only that he'd like to.

"Tell him you'd like him to. Maeve, we need all the help we can get. Speak of the devil, guess who's coming with your medicine?"

_Great._ Mae had finished putting together an outfit to wear after her shower when her mom knocked once and opened the door.

"Time for your birth-control pill."

"If only it were a birth-control pill, eh Mae-Vee? If there's any medicine that you need, that would be it."

_You're feisty today, aren't you?_ "Okay."

"I didn't grind it up. I figure after yesterday we're past that. Right?"

"Yeah." She took the pink pill and glass of water, popped the pill and chased it down with water. She wondered if she should have hid it under her tongue again, but after Rebecca instructed her to open her mouth so she could inspect, she was glad she had. If she could regain her mom's trust, eventually she could start faking taking the pill again. The time would come, hopefully sooner than later.

Rebecca saw that Mae was preparing to take a shower. "Why don't you come watch TV with your father and I for a little bit before your shower?"

"I feel gross. I want to take a shower."

"You can soon enough. Just watch TV for a while first."

"Oh, I see. You think I'll throw up the pill in the bathroom."

"I trust you. But like Ronald Reagan said, 'Trust but verify.'"

"Do I have to? I hate the news and really want to take a shower. You can listen by the door. If I puke you'll hear it. Please?"

"Okay, fair enough. I hate having to do this to you, but this is important to me. I know that it won't take long for you to realize that your birth-control pills don't harm you and you'll have no reservations taking them on your own. But for now I'd like to make sure."

"I don't understand why it's so important to you that I'm on birth-control pills. You said they're so my cramps are less severe. Why is that so important to you? If taking them should be important to anyone, it's me."

Rebecca was taken off guard. Breuer was cheering. "I take them too. I know how much they help. Please don't question me. I'm the parent, not you."

Mae rolled her eyes and carried her clothes to the bathroom with Rebecca following. She locked the door and turned on the portable stereo. Her second favorite VonFurenz song was playing on the radio.

"No, hun. Turn off the music, please," Rebecca said from the other side of the door.

Breuer manifested in the bathroom and said, "This woman doesn't have one iota of trust in you."

_Can you blame her?_ She giggled.

"I'm glad you find this funny, because I sure don't. That's the third pill you've taken in as many days. I'm sure they're well on their way to working."

Is it possible that you're wrong about this? Because I don't feel any differently.

"Because you're too busy being infatuated with Trent. Plus you've only processed two pills. The third pill you can't count yet. And I hope I'm wrong. I desperately hope I'm wrong. But I'm rarely wrong."

_Never wrong is more like it. I'm praying this is the one time you are._ Mae shed her turtleneck sweater. Having Breuer present as she undressed didn't register in her. She had done it hundreds of times. She saw her reflection in the mirror and blinked. Gawked.

"Maeve, Maeve, Maeve... what the hell?" Breuer stepped to her, frowning at what he discovered. There were two hickies on her neck. Both under the neckline of the sweater she had worn. And those weren't the worst of it.

Thank God I wore a turtleneck!

"No kidding. You'd better wear one for the next few days."

This is my only turtleneck. Crap. Do you think Mom will be suspicious if I wear the same sweater today?

"That shrewd woman?—yes. Even if she didn't, what about the next couple of days?"

I'll put foundation on them, that should do it. Yeah, I'll be fine. She won't see the rest.

"My goodness, Minnow, he really went to town on you. Look at these." He pointed to several on her stomach, shoulder, blotches of purple on the arms, even a few on her back. "I'll never relate or understand the human ritual of mating. This is horrible. I'm afraid to see your bottom half."

It was worse than what she pretended it to be. But to voice the reality of it would be to rock the pedestal she had placed Trent upon. Bruises heal, anyway. Hickies, that is. She took her pants off watching studiously in the mirror. _I didn't know that what he was doing would leave marks_. Her thighs were bruised, but not too badly. There was no sense in calling them hickies. They were somewhat finger shaped, and that did make a little sense. She unhooked her bra.

"I had no idea this man was a freak between the sheets, Maeve. I should've—" He froze at the sight of her bare chest. She was as wide-eyed as he.

He's a little energetic, yeah. I wouldn't call him a freak.

Breuer's rotund baby face wasn't easily made to appear angry or nasty. His pointed eyes, vee'd brow, and tight lips were managing quite well at the moment.

"Honey, what the fuck is this?"

What? Just hickies. What's the big deal?

"Bullshit. And you know that's bullshit." He touched a breast, invoking a hiss. "The only hickies are the two on your neck! He was hurting you!"

No he wasn't. He was a little rough but he never intended to hurt me.

"Are these from grabbing, squeezing? Did he hit you?"

Hit me? Breuer, Trent would never hit me! He was holding on to me while we did it, that's all! Maybe he was holding on a little too tightly, but that's all! I'll tell him to take it easy next time, okay?

Breuer crouched down to examine Mae's lower half: it wasn't a long trip down. The bruises weren't nearly as bad as the ones on her chest. Glimpsing her chest it was difficult to distinguish nipples from contusions, where one ended and the next began. "It's like that fool dipped his hands in purple paint before getting into bed with you."

I'll tell him to stop, okay? It won't happen again.

"It better not. For his sake. Something really bad just might have to happen to him. I wouldn't hesitate a second in sending him to the afterlife; don't doubt me for a second."

Please don't say such things, my heart can't bear it.

### Chapter 22

On the dining room table a Boggle game was being peered at by six Clark'en eyes. It was the unspoken tradition of Saturday afternoons. Her mom was brilliant at it; David not so much. Mae was impressing them both with how quickly she was becoming good. She'd still lose to her mom every time, but the day was coming when she'd win.

The doorbell rang. The timer was almost out of sand so they played on, frantically jotting down words at the last second. "Time," Mae said. Excited, she exclaimed, "I got a six and seven letter word: ounces and pounces!"

"Nice, sweetheart! I didn't get either of those," David said. "Keep it up and you'll pass your mother some day as Boggle Queen."

Rebecca hurried to the front door as David got the pitcher of iced tea out of the fridge. He topped off his and Mae's glasses while offering corn chips or pretzels. She'd take some Doritos, thank you.

Entering the dining room was Rebecca and Lisa. "Lisa?" Mae gulped, "What are you doing here?" Not good. _Not_ good. She palpitated, blood thundered in her ears.

"Just stopping by to see what you're up to. I tried calling you; left a voicemail."

Mae patted her pockets: no phone. "Left it in my bedroom, I guess."

"Would you like to play some Boggle with us?" David asked, putting the first nail in the coffin.

Mae said no as Lisa said sure. "She's just being nice," Mae said. "Lisa hates Boggle."

"I do?"

"Yes." Mae scowled at her.

"Oh, Boggle. Yeah, I never cared for Boggle, or any word games for that matter." Lisa sold it well, considering her late start.

Mae got up and said she was done, and that they'd be in her bedroom. She strode past her friend, gestured her to follow. When she entered her room, she anticipated Lisa being behind her, alone. That wasn't the case. Her mom entered the room behind the two. "Can I help you?" Mae said defiantly.

"Yes. You can start by telling me what you're hiding."

"Nothing. Why do you always assume the worst in me?"

"Don't play me for a fool, Mae. I was your age once too, you know. You get a six and seven letter word in Boggle and don't stick around to see if you beat me? Start talking."

"No! I didn't do anything!"

Lisa was staring at Mae's neck, squinted and stepped forward for a closer inspection. From her angle she had a direct view of the larger of two blotches of foundation. Unfortunately for Mae, her mother observed this and swooped in. Mae had guilt written all over her face. A panicked face.

"What is this?" Rebecca demanded.

"A baseball hit my neck yesterday. I put foundation on it."

Rebecca wet her thumb and wiped the foundation away, then took a closer look. "Who gave you this?"

"Nobody. It's no big deal. Can you please leave me alone now?"

She circled Mae, examining her neck along the way, and found another baseball injury. "I'll be damned." She lifted Mae's hair and checked the back of her neck, then pulled back her shirt-collar to look down. Mae yanked the shirt out of her hand before she could see. "Don't you ever!" Rebecca scorned. She grabbed a fistful of Mae's collar again and looked down the front of her shirt. Mae winced in anticipation. Rebecca gasped so loudly that Mae felt the ambient air around her vacuum into her open mouth. She let go, took the shirt-hem in both hands and lifted it up. When Mae tried stopping her, she got her hand slapped away. The shirt went up, up, and over her head.

Mae wore a red bra, but the predominant color that her mom and Lisa were seeing wasn't red at all. Big purple roses, some overlapping, some enormous, some curiously small.

Rebecca's anger dispelled at once. A broken heart replaced it. She covered her mouth and part of her nose with a hand. Her eyes welled up and spilled over. Lisa's mouth hung open as if a doctor were checking her tonsils. In a small voice she asked her best friend what happened.

"I was in a fight," Mae said.

"David! Come here!" Rebecca shouted with tears dripping off her jaw. "What happened, sweetie? Who did this to you?"

Mae lowered her head into her cupped hand, succumbed to despair. She knew she was in trouble, knew she wouldn't be keeping her date with Trent tonight. Those truths hurt bad. But what hurt the most was seeing her mom's heart shatter before her eyes. From angry to heartbroken in the glimpse of a bruised body.

"Is it like this everywhere?" Rebecca wondered. She unbuttoned her daughters jeans. Mae no longer resisted. The white flag was being waved. Pants fell, puddled around her ankles. More bruises. None too horrific, but each had a story to tell. Rebecca pulled back the elastic band of her panties and inspected: no bruises. She stepped around her and repeated the process. Another gasp. She lowered her panties to just below her cheeks. "David! Get your butt—"

"I'm here, I'm here. Wh..." He seized. In no more than a whisper he asked who did it to her. The idea that nobody was responsible for this other than Mae never entered their minds. She was a victim. She was even crying like a victim.

"Come here and look at this."

Lisa was affected by the tears and the evident abuse of her friend, and wept herself. She wanted to leave. Badly. From how her friend reacted to her unannounced visit, she knew she'd be implicated in this mess. Without a word she left the room. Rebecca was fully on her game and roared, "Get back here, Lisa!" Lisa plodded back with her tail between her legs.

David was behind Mae and staring at the finger imprints painted in sickly purple on his daughter's bottom. He moaned ruefully. Rebecca zipped around to face Mae. "Take your bra off." Mae shook her head inside her hand. "Mae, I'm not asking." Rebecca asked David to step outside the room for a moment, and he did. Mae wasn't removing her bra, so her mother did it for her. The worst bruises on her body were now unveiled. A few streaks of milky white skin remained amongst a graveyard of brutalized blood vessels; a cadaverous purple chest with swirls of saffron discolorations not quite the color of pus, but close enough to fuel the imagination.

Rebecca dropped to her knees and clung to Mae's leg with a wet cheek against her thigh and sobbed. Lisa was so distraught that she unthinkingly wedged herself between Rebecca and Mae and hugged her, apologized to her. Mae hugged her back, sought comfort in her presence.

Rebecca called for David. The door opened. He couldn't see Mae's bruised chest with Lisa hugging her, but didn't need to. The scene painted the picture well, and the paint would be purple.

"Call the police," she demanded.

"No!" Mae cried. "Don't call them!"

"Lisa, maybe you should go home," David said awkwardly.

Lisa released Mae and took flight. David glimpsed the wreckage of his daughter's bosom and couldn't look away fast enough.

"No," Rebecca countered. "Lisa stays here. Get your butt in here, Lisa. Mae, unless you can give us a damned good reason not to call the police, we're calling them."

"Because it's my fault." She put her bra back on (gingerly) and redressed.

"Explain." Before Mae could, Rebecca changed her mind. "Wait. Don't say a word. Lisa, what do you know about this?"

"Nothing. I swear."

"I'm pretty sure that Mae didn't have these bruises yesterday. She spends the night at your house and now this? What did you guys do?"

"I, we went to the park and played baseball."

"She got all of these bruises playing baseball? Bullshit."

"Mae got in a fight with another girl. Melanie. I guess that's how she got bruised."

"Remember a few months ago when I caught you sharing a bottle of schnapps with Mae that you'd stolen from your parents?" Lisa knew where this was headed. Blackmail. "I could have and should have told your parents, but I remember what it's like being your age and understand that things happen. I said that I would never tell them so long as you never brought alcohol into this house again. Do you see where I'm going with this, Lisa?" She nodded. "Good. Then tell me the truth or I'll take you home and have a talk with your parents."

"It's okay, Lisa," Mae said dejectedly. "You're the best friend I've ever had." _Beside you, Breuer, if you're here._ "I'm not going to let you get in trouble. Lisa has no idea what happened. I wasn't at her house last night. Can she go now?"

"Yes. Go on."

Lisa rushed out of the bedroom and the front door thudded shut seconds later.

The dining table was just off the kitchen in a shallow alcove. It had borne witness to many family meetings. Many punishments were doled out from that damned table, and sure as shit there would be one doled out from it today. David cleared the paper and pens and game off the table. They took the same seats as they had during the game. The idea that they had played Boggle contentedly only a moment—so recently that the ice cubes in their iced teas were still shapely—seemed like a vulgar joke now. To her parents, that is. To Mae the idea of contentedness seemed like heaven. Anything but this discussion.

Mae crossed her arms on the table and hid her head in the made-nook. She remembered how that made-nook used to be her refuge from a belt's wrath. Now it was a place to hide her shame. She felt so much older then. How could that be? She leaked onto the glossy walnut wood that was the same shade of her hair when wet.

Rebecca and David exchanged stares. Being a parent isn't easy, it said. No it isn't. Nobody prepared you for this conversation, did they? Dealing with family tragedy seems to elude the curriculum time and time again, but damned if they didn't hammer the Pythagorean theorem into your head semester after semester. You never know when your daughter might get raped by a mathematical formula, but if she does you'll be quick to structure the unknown variables into something more tangible and find comfort in your understanding.

David got up and went to the fridge, took three bottles of Miller Lite out and returned to the table. Rebecca gave him a _Please tell me you're joking_ expression. David mouthed the words, _trust me, babe,_ to her. She looked at her daughter, sighed, and nodded. David opened all three and handed one to his wife, and nudged Mae's elbow with a cold bottle. She peeked and wore the same confounded expression her mother had.

"We're having a beer," David said. "All of us."

She stared undecidedly at him.

"It's not a trick. We're going to talk; three adults, no kids. It will help calm your nerves, trust me." He took a seat and a pull off his beer. Mae wiped her eyes, clutched hold of the beer. Last night it was in silvery cans and kept calling her a lightweight. She looked at the two faces to see if either would say, I knew it! You rotten little kid, you were actually going to drink it! David winked wanly at her and sipped his beer. Mae took a sip, checked back with her parents, then a longer drink.

Her parents gazed down at the table under the tremendous gravity of the situation. And just what was the situation? Rape? They thought it was. The bruising was in intimate areas and she didn't have a boyfriend. Bathing suit areas. Good touches, bad touches: these were touches of the worst kind. Mae had problems enough before this; how would she rebound from this one? Who would she create out of thin air to cope with this unknown trauma? Somber faces, deep inhalations still not finding enough air. An ominous presence so thick that it might never wash off the surrounding walls, but stick around like an ugly coat of purple paint to remind them of where they went wrong in their parenting.

Mae took another drink. David and Rebecca had a hell of a lot more on their minds than underage drinking. Mae sat the empty bottle down. It clanked the sad tune of an empty bottle. Her stomach was mostly empty; she felt the beer already.

"Another?" David asked.

"No." Mae saw no evidence of anger in his eyes. Or hers. Only compassion and pain. More pain than compassion. "Thank you, Dad. That was a cool thing of you to do."

"We don't want to make this any harder than it has to be," he said. "I'm sure you understand why this scares the hell out of us. I just can't grasp that only minutes ago we were sitting here playing games like everything was fine and dandy, as those bruises were covering your body. It frightens me to think that it almost went by unnoticed."

"Were you raped?" her mom asked evenly. She asked as if she already knew the answer and wanted Mae to confirm it.

The second-hand on the kitchen clock paused for a response.

Mae shook her head, which had the affect of a shaken snow globe—the snow flurries were golden and tasted like Miller Lite.

"If not rape, what?"

"I'm afraid how mad you'll be at me." She burped silently.

"I know, honey," David consoled, "but you have to tell us."

"Do you have to call me honey? And I know. I'll tell you. I met a guy."

"When?" Rebecca asked.

"Please, let her tell the story."

"Thanks, Dad. Doesn't matter when we met. It wasn't long ago. His name is Trent. I like him. I like him a lot. I called him my boyfriend and he said I'm his girlfriend. I lied about going to Lisa's yesterday so I could go see Trent play baseball. He hit a homerun. He's really good. I think you guys would like him. We went out to dinner after the game. Then we went to see Pirates of the Caribbean. He said he'd take me home after the movie. Trent drives. I explained that I couldn't go home because you weren't expecting me home until today. He offered to let me stay with him and I wanted to. I wanted to stay with Trent more than anything. Live Like You Were Dying. He treats me like an adult. He called me a woman. The first time a human has called me a woman. I'm not a kid to him. You don't understand how good it feels to not be a kid. I'm tired of being treated like a little girl; of opening my mouth to prove that I'm a big girl and can swallow my pill all on my own; of being driven to school because I can't be trusted to drink a glass of juice and not throw it up on my walk there; of unwrapping presents to find clothing with unicorns and glittery rainbows; of being accused of having an imaginary friend, who's not as imaginary as you might think. I'm tired of being fourteen, only three weeks from fifteen, and still being tucked into bed and kissed on the forehead every night, after being reminded to brush my teeth and put my pajamas on. I stopped feeling like a kid when the people who kidnapped me beat me for behaving like one. The best thing that's ever happened to me was them dying; the worst thing is that I experienced adulthood before childhood. The kid-Mae was beat out of me, so I moved on out of necessity, adapted by becoming some passable version of an adult. Because I had no choice. They got what they deserved and I was lucky enough to be reunited with two loving caring parents, and just like that I'm a kid again. Only I'm treated like the Mae who was at the mall on Christmas eve all those years ago. To you guys I'm still that little girl, and you've been raising me accordingly. Well I don't feel like a damned kid anymore! I'm a woman! Trent sees that; why are he and I the only two who see that?"

She took the Kleenex that her dad had put on the table and blew her nose. The golden snow flurries were stirred up again. She thought she'd hear from her parents but didn't. Shock, maybe. She was free to continue.

"Last night I wasn't a kid, that's for sure. I was a woman and was free to do whatever this woman wanted." She thought that was the beer talking. "And what I wanted to do was Trent, so I did." Definitely the beer. "He didn't force me to, didn't ask me to. He even offered me a way out after I said that I would." She tried to drink more of her Miller Lite but it was still empty. David, probably reacting on some primordial level, slid his mostly full beer to Mae without taking his eyes off the maple wood. "Thanks." She took a long drink from it, nearly finished it and set it down. She glanced at her mom, who looked like she'd been hypnotized and was waiting for a command.

"I didn't want a way out of it. I called him my boyfriend and he was happy with that. He knew someone who could buy beer and he bought us a whole bunch of it. We went to Trent's and drank it, but I only had a couple because it turns out I'm what they call a light-weight. We kissed. One thing led to another, just as I knew it would, like I expected it would, like I hoped it would, and the next thing I knew we were in his bed. Making bruises. I didn't know it at the time, believe-you-me, or I would've put the kibosh on that shit. Stuff. On that stuff. Sorry. Maybe it was the beer that spared me pain, and the beer that made him as rough as he was with me. It was nothing more than him holding on extra tight, squeezing a little maybe. I had nothing to compare it to so for all I knew that's the way it was supposed to be. But after looking in the mirror, I know that it wasn't done by the book.

"So that's it," Mae said conclusively. Another silent burp. There was a blizzard in her head. "There was no rape. No violence, unless you consider rough sex violent, which I don't. And no regrets. Well, I regret having bruises and definitely regret being caught. But I don't regret going home with Trent and sleeping with him. No sirree, McGee. And I don't regret that I called him my boyfriend and he called me his girlfriend. No way, Jose. That was one of the evening's highlights, actually. And you know what else I don't regret?—this is a good one..." There was a maniacal enthusiasm in her voice. A foreshadowing of a nastiness that had already dropped from the Enola Gay and was due in Hiroshima any second. She looked at her mother. "Mom?" Then her dad. "Dad? Any guesses?"

She drank the last of the Miller Lite so they could come up with a guess. She burped (loudly this time) then checked back with the folks. They stared at her as if she were the twenty-fourth hour watched of a Jerry Lewis Marathon, comatose.

"I don't regret not using a condom! Ta-da!" Their eyes blinked back to life. "Why is that, you ask?" Nobody had asked. "I'll tell you why. Because Mom here put me on birth control. Woo-hoo! All those spermies inside me and nowhere for them to go because my eggs have been scrambled by Mom's birth-control pills. And to think that I was apprehensive in taking those pills at first. Turns out they were the deciding factor in whether or not we should use a rubber. I owe it all to you, Mom. You could've just as easily lied to me and told me they were something else, so I wouldn't have been under the impression that I had a green light to have unprotected sex. Mid-cycle is when we ovulate, too, right Mom? We're pro-life, right?" She wiped her forehead and said, "Whew. I know birth control pills only have a ninety-nine-percent chance of success, but I'll take those odds any day over sprinkling fertilizer on the lady-garden—three times in one night, too—during ovulation." Mae smacked her lips and felt strange. Without warning she vomited on the table. Nothing came out but beer, tea, and a few soggy Doritos.

The little pink pill she had swallowed was digested.

### Chapter 23

Tag woke up without a headache and praised his father. The clock read 5:05 P.M. "That can't be right." He went to the living room: the clock backed up the other's story. "My God, five? Kade, you here?" No response. He tried to remember what time he'd gone to bed but couldn't remember. Was it light out? Yes. That much he could remember. It might have been light out for hours. It was almost time to get ready for work. He didn't know whether to make breakfast or dinner.

After a shower, Tag put on the chinos he wore yesterday (mostly clean) and a fresh shirt. There was a soft lump in his pants-pocket. It was a written-on napkin that read: Molly 531-9385 Sunday movie, don't forget!

He'd already forgotten what she looked like. A ghost wearing Capri pants in a Penny's circular. Oh well, it was only a movie, right? He wasn't sure if he was meeting her at the theater or the bar or if he was supposed to pick her up. He decided to give her a ring, reserving the right to cancel the whole silly date.

"Hello?" a girl said on the other end of the phone.

"Is this Molly?"

"Yes. May I ask who's calling?"

"Tag. We met last night at the Saucy—"

"I remember. How are you feeling today, Tag?" She giggled.

"Would you believe that I just woke up?"

"What time did you get to bed?"

"I don't remember. I had some more drinks after you left and then more again when I got home. I messed around on the computer for a few hours and hardly remember it."

"On the website that I told you about?"

"Yes."

"Can I go online and read it?"

"Uh, you'd better not. I think it was pornographic."

She laughed. "You finally decide to post some writing somewhere where it will be read, and you decided to go with porn?" She laughed some more.

"I was drunk, have some sympathy."

"I've got to read it. I'll let you go so I can find it. It's under your name I presume. Tag... I don't know your last name. What is it?"

"Ha! I'm not saying. It's embarrassing. I'm going to write something else to replace it and then I'll consider allowing you to read it."

"Aww, you suck. I want to know how Tag narrates his sexy-time."

"Poorly. Now you know. So are we on for Sunday then?"

"Are you still willing to take me out?"

"Yeah, I'll take you out," he said apathetically.

"Gee, thanks. I know I'm not the hottest girl in Chico, but you could at least pretend that you aren't disappointed to be taking me out."

"It's not like that. I remember you being pretty, even though I don't recall what you look like. I'm just not the type to broadcast my emotions. People say I'm hard to read."

"People are right. For what it's worth, I haven't been on a date in a while and I'm looking forward to it. But don't get any big ideas about what might happen after the movie. We can go to my place or I'll go to your place, but there will be no sex."

"I don't care if you would or wouldn't allow me to have sex with you after the movie because I wouldn't have sex with you if you begged me to."

"Wow. _Wow_. You really know what to tell a girl to make her feel special, don't you?"

"You just got done telling me that you wouldn't have sex with me. What's the difference?"

"I'm supposed to play hard to get, I'm a girl. You're supposed to jump at the chance for a little action. Are you sure you want to go out with me?"

"Yeah, of course. I called you, didn't I? Don't take shit personally. I don't sleep with virtual strangers, that's all. Call me old fashioned, but I prefer to get to know someone personally before I get to know them physically."

"Then you're one of a kind."

"That it makes me one of a kind is fucking depressing. What's your address?"

She gave her address and they agreed on a time and decided to pick a movie once they got there.

### Chapter 24

Getting in touch with one's boyfriend when you're grounded for a month and no longer have a cellphone isn't easy. Mae would've searched for him on Facebook if she still had computer privileges. It was almost as though they'd thought that one through. The hope, desperation even, that Trent would come to her school in the morning or when classes were over was sent packing when Rebecca decided to drive her to and from school. The only way she figured she'd see him again before she was allowed a phone and-or a computer was for him to stop by the house. Unlikely?—yes. But he did know where she lived, so it wasn't out of the dismal realm of possibilities. What made being grounded extra shitty was Breuer not being around. She had hoped Breuer was busy trying to get Trent to come rescue her (Breuer was great at devising plans), but suspected that he might be mad at her for screwing everything up.

As the days trickled by at a torturously slow rate, Breuer still AWOL, she began wondering if he was right about the pills she'd been taking. He had said they'd change her. Granted, Breuer not hanging around nowadays wasn't so much of a change in her as it was a change in him, but maybe they caused her not to see or hear him. None of these thoughts amounted to much because she had no choice in the matter. After she dropped the sex bomb on her parents, what little trust they had in her was obliterated inside the mushroom cloud of her revelation.

The pills were no longer administered in the morning, but rather when she got home from school. After observing her swallow them, they'd monitor her for an hour to see that they stuck. But the pills were seeming less and less important to Mae. She wasn't a zombie and they didn't affect the price of tea in Tennessee. Trent did. And her dreary and desolate waters hadn't been steeped by his savoriness in an eternity. At least she was keeping the water hot for him. He'd appreciate that if he only knew.

A new worry arose on or about the day she expected her monthly visitor. Her mom was equally worried. Luckily for Mae, her mother couldn't voice her concern because she was still holding on to that damnable lie. Birth control pills, ha! That didn't stop her from trying to find out for herself. She began going through Mae's bathroom trashcan on a daily basis. Mae learned this when she noticed the empty tube of toothpaste that she'd tossed on a heap of trash (mostly toilet paper) was no longer on top when she returned from school. It was near the bottom.

Tensions increased by the day. Mae guessed she was three or four days late now and consequently she thought less about Trent than she did about being pregnant. It was perhaps the fourth or fifth day that she opened a maxi-pad and flushed it, threw the wrapper in the trash can before going to school. When she returned home that day, she sensed the relief in her mom. Mae's consternation, however, wasn't abated until two days later. It was then she was finally able to breathe deeply and even smile a little. Smiles didn't come cheap these days. Cherish the ones you get; milk 'em for all they're worth. Hallelujah, there would be no baby. She was free to go about pining over Trent. And pine she did.

The next day at school Mae employed a plan that she had devised the night before. A girl in her class—Zoe, looked like a Barbie doll and sounded like the Crock Hunter's daughter Bindi—had a phone that could access the internet. A smartphone, someone deemed it. An apt name, Mae thought. Zoe wasn't her friend but an acquaintance. Mae offered her five bucks to use her phone at lunch. Zoe became five bucks richer.

It took half of Mae's lunch recess to find Trent on Facebook. She didn't know his last name and that was a huge obstacle. Luckily she remembered the name of his baseball team. Roseville Jaguars. She discovered the name of the coach by websurfing. He was on Facebook, incredibly. He was young, so maybe not too incredible. She doubted her parents had ever heard of Facebook, which was still somewhat new at the time. She searched this Doug Ingram's friends list. He had a few who were approximately Trent's age, but none who were as handsome. She searched the friends of those friends. One such friend was named Peter Castenella. Peter had a friend who was as gorgeous as she remembered. Trent Blackwood. Blackwood. Never would she have guessed it in a million years. She sent him a Facebook message, asking him to call her at the following number a quarter past noon tomorrow. If he couldn't or didn't get this message before then, call her at the same time the following day. She enlightened him of the obvious, that she was grounded severely—a conclusion arriving naturally to Trent after his calls transferred straight to Mae's voicemail day after damned day. She missed him more than he could imagine and couldn't stop thinking about him (frowny face). Did he really mean it when he called her his girlfriend? She sure hoped so, because she had already gotten in the habit of referring to Trent as her boyfriend to her friends at school. She ended the message with, _Please call me. I can't go on much longer without hearing from you. Love, Mae_. She erased love, then considered erasing her love to be taboo, retyped love, and sent the message.

Mae informed Zoe that she had booked her phone for at least tomorrow—same bat time, same bat channel—possibly the following day as well. She'd give her five bucks each day she used it. Zoe thought it a sound business deal and an accord was struck.

Twenty-four-hours later, phone held tightly in Mae's hand, it rang. She was confident it was Trent, being that it was fifteen past the hour on the nose. She answered by saying his name. He sounded thrilled to hear her voice, and it was then that Mae knew she was wrong to have been worried about their relationship. He liked her just as much as she liked him, as hard a concept that was to grasp. He declared his need to see her, grounded or not. Mae grudgingly said that it would have to wait another two weeks, when her punishment had finally ran its course. Even then—as if that weren't bad enough—she was warned to never see or speak to Trent again. _Ever._ Like that would stop her. All it meant was that she would be forced to become extra crafty and sneaky. Like her mom. Maybe she shared that trait in her DNA. Trent wouldn't take no for an answer; two weeks might as well have been a life sentence as far as he was concerned. She said amen to that. He asked if he could stop by the house in the dead of night and sneak to her bedroom window. She would love that. And would take a nap after school so she could stay awake through the night. He'd be there at 1:00 A.M. and she'd be waiting with open arms.

### Chapter 25

A knot formed in Mae's stomach when she heard her father coughing at ten minutes before one. She tiptoed to their bedroom door and listened for a bit. When she heard the whistling of air through her dad's nose, the knot untied.

At one o'clock the window was eagerly opened as Trent appeared like a phantom in the night, clad in black. There was a screen that Mae thought was permanently attached, but Trent removed it like the worldly man he was. They immediately kissed from either side of the sill. He clambered through the window and briefly scoped out her unbarred prison cell. It wasn't of much interest to him. Not nearly as much as the cute little ward residing within.

He had plenty of flattering things to tell Mae, each better received than the last. She returned them with heartfelt words of her own. She remembered a thing or two from a Shakespeare book she was forced to read back when she was adult, but dared not recite them. She'd come off as a bookworm. A nerd.

She was reluctant to recount the nightmare that put them in this predicament, specifically the bruises. But she did. With what began as measured indifference, Mae expounded the details of what her body had looked like on that rueful day (and for several days following). The more she spoke, the more her anguish seeped through. Tears almost too premature to detect—but not to Trent they weren't—came when she recalled the embarrassment suffered as her parents and best friend gawked at her undressed body like she was the main attraction at a circus (at the very least a circus sideshow act). That's not how it was but Mae was remembering it that way in this emotional moment. Chalk it up to the crazy pills.

Trent was sincerely sorry and swore it would never happen again. His indignation for her treatment was masked, but masked poorly. There were dark thoughts stirring about in that pretty head of his, but Mae supposed he had good reason to be upset with her parents.

"It was worth it," Mae assured him. "Every bit of it."

"If you had a do-over, would you still have come home with me?"

"In a heartbeat."

He asked what she thought about sex, if she enjoyed it. She loved it, she said. It was a lie, but she did love how happy it made him, so it was only a partial lie. He asked if she wanted to do it again and she asked when. "Right here, right now," he said. She didn't think that was a good idea. If they woke her parents all hell would break loose. The obituary page of the Sacramento Bee would span two pages she imagined. And besides, she was on her period. In an effort to point out the silver lining on this darkest blanket of a cloud, she said that he was lucky that her parents weren't actively pursuing a statutory rape charge against him. They wanted to, especially her mom, but Mae convinced them not to. More like begged them not to. More like threatened to kill herself if they did. "Our love-making was all my decision," she had reasoned with them (before she learned that reasoning wouldn't suffice to save Trent's ass). "Trent had nothing to do with it!" Mae had said. Well, he had _something_ to do with it. Mae's threats of self-inflicted doom won her the battle. Her mom vowed that if there was a next time she'd be on the phone with the police. Their not knowing his last name wouldn't get in the way of his incarceration, either. They knew enough facts to piece it together, especially after they learned what field she attended to watch the game. The location combined with the date and knowing his first name would yield arrest-warrant results.

Trent thought it would be exciting to make love to her knowing the risk involved. He began touching her, period be damned. She resolved to deny him. She'd make it up to him as soon as she wasn't grounded. He was intrigued by the promise, said he'd hold her to it. They kissed and embraced.

Mae was confident that she'd have a way to spend the days and nights with Trent come then. She'd have to lie and say she was at Lisa's or whoever's house—Zoe stood out as a candidate; she had already proved that she could be bought—and that could easily be arranged. But Mae couldn't have been more wrong. Her parents had anticipated deception from their daughter and planned on keeping track of where she was at all times. If she would visit at Lisa's, they'd drop her off and pick her up, and confer with Lisa's parents both times. If she wanted to go to the mall for a couple hours—a haunting reality for her parents, especially come Christmas time—they'd drop her off and pick her up, and call her cellphone every hour between. When Mae would accept that offer, and then ask to go to the mall again the very next day, her parents would see their folly; a minor set-back. A defeat. One to grow on. Consequently, they'd take it to the next level and purchase a tracking device for her. Global Positioning System. Technology is a bitch, ain't it Mae? With smart phones come smart parents with smarter devices. Rebecca and David were done messing around. No more. They were playing hard-ball now.

Trent knew hard-ball. Intimately. _Loved_ hard-ball. Played it more than his game-schedule would have you believe, too. And isn't it every boy's dream to play in the Big Leagues some day?

### Chapter 26

It had been twenty-nine _long_ mother fucking days since Trent slept with Mae. Since he'd left his mark on her, so to speak. In class he was no longer paying attention. No sense in acting like he cared what some dry old bastard was preaching from his self-aggrandizing pulpit—Trent was too smart to be fooled even by himself. Instead he found himself drawing. Yellow notepad, number two pencil.

He sketched only Mae at first, but as the days bled painfully by he began including her parents. His favorite involved a rope with a noose tied at both ends and draped evenly over a tree branch, Mr. and Mrs. Clark fitted inside them. The title captioning it: _The Clark's Future Hangs in the Balance._

There were others he liked, like the Clark family beach trip that ended tragically when a great white shark bit Mae's parents in half. She was waving goodbye to them from the shore. He even shaded in a sunset. He wasn't as happy with its title: _Can You Hear Me Now? How About Now?_ But felt it was somehow fitting.

The one he was sure he'd like most when he conceived the idea had him sexing up Mae with her parents bound and gagged in chairs facing the fornicators in bed. He did like that drawing, _Mother Mae I?,_ but not as much as the others. He figured it was because they were still alive in the drawing. But it wasn't just that. Trent had a notion that her parents would enjoy watching them have sex. Mae was incomparably beautiful. Resplendent. A thing of righteous beauty in an otherwise ugly world. Not for a second did Trent believe that her parents were oblivious of this singular allure. They knew damned well what they had, that's why they kept her in their iron grip. They knew they were sitting on a veritable goldmine, only they were unsure how to cash the check. They probably thought she'd marry some billionaire and those Clark's would leech off his fortune. And if they were lucky she'd do a spread in Playboy. Maybe the bitch mom wouldn't care much for the photos (or maybe she would?) but she'd love annexing some of the cash it brought in. Trent knew for a fact that the asshole father would take his daughter's Playboy to work and show all his buddies, proudly and while pitching a tent. That's where _Mother Mae I?_ went wrong. It catered more to them than him. Mae Clark may have been a result of those two vermin mating, but that didn't entitle them to see her in all her glory, stripped down and humiliated in front of an audience including Mae's dearest friend, pointed at and laughed at as if she were a circus sideshow freak. That was an inexcusable act of cruelty perpetrated against his girlfriend. Whether it was for self-amusement or to taunt Trent, the line was crossed just the same. If that wasn't an open declaration of war against Trent, what is?

It was thirty-one fucked up days after the fateful night that he met Mae, when Trent picked her up from the Sacramento mall and took her to the nearest hotel (an hour's combined driving time to and from his apartment would be a misuse of their precious time). It was there that he unloaded a hundred-and-eighty pounds of testosterone in two minutes flat. They spent the next few hours conversing and kissing, caressing and resting. They voiced their convictions of a shared chemistry that could only come from the finding of one's true soul mate. Interests, desires, personalities so easily assimilated, bonded together by the unspoken presumption of permanence. It was unthinkable that they hadn't meet sooner. How meaningful and natural life would be if they were but freed from these bondages, these obstacles placed to circumvent their destiny of unity.

Trent had to listen to a damned meddlesome phone call from that bitch mom every hour. But aside from that it was the best three hours of his life.

As Mae lay gathered up on his chest on the hotel bed, Trent gazed down at the perfection of body and mind upon him and appreciated his blessed fortune. She would tilt her head just enough to kiss his chest every so often, reminding him of her love and devotion. If it could all be boiled down to one moment, it was then that he knew he would be with her forever.

"I love you, Mae."

She perked up and flashed at him her big blue eyes with fiery amber coronas blazing. "I love you, too!" In her slight arms she embraced him with the impassioned fervor of a military wife reunited with her long lost P.O.W. and gave him a torrential down-pour of kisses. It was a blissful moment that never wanted to see an end. A moment that could never be duplicated or relived, endured in both the blink of an eye and the life of a memory.

The blink of an eye passed the torch to memory. Time is the most unconditional and ruthless of predators and was exceedingly so for those three heavenly hours.

He drove her back to the mall where the Clark-suckers would pick her up and transport their prisoner home. It wasn't all bad: Mae said she'd meet him at the mall again tomorrow for another three hours. Parents permitting, that is.

After dropping her off, he milled around the mall with a spring in his step, grinning perpetually. He entered the first jewelry store that evoked the desired vibe. He bought an engagement ring—which he would call a promise ring—and decided to give it to her tomorrow at the hotel. He would be clear, crystal clear, that it wasn't a proposal. Its symbolism was essentially the same, but it wasn't a promise to marry, but rather to be together forever. His mother had married his father and look how that turned out. His father died shortly after. She remarried twice, both ending in divorce. Aunt and uncle?—divorced. Marriage was a hex but what it represented wasn't. A promise ring was the way to go. A promise of a shared life. Till death do they part, a phrase that he always thought had a nice ring to it.

Later that night Mae texted Trent the bad news. There would be no trip to the mall tomorrow. No sneaking off to a hotel. 'They' were on to them. And the worst part was that Mr. and Mrs. Fucktard would be using a tracking device on her—"Installing a tracking device" was probably how they said it—so they'd never be able to spend time together again. Not for another three years, that is. At eighteen she'd be able to move in with him, and at last they'd be together. It was an obscene joke with no punch-line.

The combustible hatred that he had been cultivating, a dull orange glow smoldering in Trent's heart for thirty-one days, was fanned, fueled, and ignited into a blistering red inferno of hell's fucking fury. He needed a solution like a poisoned man needs antidote, like an uncontainable fire needs rain. There was only one way to put out this baleful fire, and the rain would surely be blood red. Fuck rain; a ship-swallowing tempest with a forecast of red tide.

Trent would have it out up-close-and-personal with the fire starters.

### Chapter 27

Sunday morning started off on a high note. Tag awoke to the smell of bacon, eggs, and coffee. Kade wasn't the type to make any of those things, so he surmised Kade got lucky at the bars last night. This assumption was confirmed when he entered the living room. A girl in an over-sized shirt and no pants, bed-hair, and spatula in hand was manning the range in the kitchen. He wondered if she was wearing panties under that ugly shirt but didn't want to find out. If she was free-balling it, he'd be having cereal and juice. She wasn't as hefty as were most of his one-nighters. Not at all. Dare he deem her cute? Kade with a cute girl? The sun does shine on a dog's ass every now and then. She was in a pleasant mood, too. Tag loved morning people since he wasn't one. They were a curious breed. More animal than human. What he liked about them is how he could siphon some good-mood out of them. Usually. Sometimes he'd just piss them off.

"Hi there," she said with a candid grin. "I'm Bonnie."

"Hey. I'm Tag. It smells like Denny's in here. Smells good." He observed her painted toe-nails and wondered what the hell the point of that was. Did they help her win Kade over last night? Like he even noticed them now that she was barefooted.

"You should smell my sheets," Kade said from the couch.

Bonnie frowned at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Please don't answer that, Kade," Tag said. To Bonnie, he said, "Anyways, thanks for cooking. If you cooked for three, that is. I shouldn't have assumed that."

"I did. And it's my pleasure." She glimpsed Tag's chest and said, "Nice shirt."

Tag looked down. A black tee with white words reading FUCKING IDIOT and an arrow pointing to his crotch. "Thanks."

"That was a Christmas present from me," Kade said proudly.

Tag took his warm plate and coffee to his room to watch a little baseball before getting ready for his date. He was savoring a piece of bacon when an E-Harmony commercial aired, triggering the memory of his romantic short-story that he had posted. Molly had said that people will read and review posted works; he was suddenly curious if anyone had done that. _What a colossal piece of shit!_ is what they'd likely say. Did he even give it a title? He hadn't a clue. It was a mighty fine drunken fog he was cruising through that night. It could be entitled Booty Soup for all he knew.

He brought his plate to his computer desk and navigated the website. It asked him to log in. It wanted two things from him and he couldn't provide either: his username and password. Luckily after he entered the letter T, it auto-filled the rest: Tagwrites. The password wouldn't come as easily. He entered the passwords of his email address, voicemail, and bank account. No dice. "Good thinking, dumbass. Pick a password when you're drunk that you'll never remember when you're sober." On a whim he entered MaeClark: the password was accepted. "Oh hell yeah! Go Mae! Is there no end to your greatness? Apparently not!" He had three messages. "Woo-hoo!"

The first was the aspiringwriter-dot-com staff welcoming him to the community. Delete. The second was from JohnHeines and read:

Awesome story! Flawless grammar, unique style, and it was two boners up! If I could make one suggestion it would be to move it out of romance and into erotica. I wouldn't let my sixteen-year-old son read what you wrote. Keep it up, man! (and by up I'm referring to my boner!) Peace, John.

"Sounds about right. I guess I could always get a job at Penthouse Forums." He clicked on his portfolio and saw that he had one posted story. It was titled Mae The Day Away. "Mae The Day Away? That's the best I could come up with?" Booty Soup would've been better.

His last message was from Anonymous Guest. Ah, the infamous Anonymous Guest. The masked critic. Never brazen enough to confess his identity for fear of retaliation. He clicked on the message and it read:

Interesting story. It's remarkably like my own. Coincidence, huh? What's your name and address and I'll mail you a printed copy of it.

There was no signature. And there was no way in hell he'd be giving out his name and address, thank you very much. Especially when the guy could just as easily post it on the site for Tag to read. Unless it was too large to fit, which was quite possible with this joke of a website. But it wasn't Tag's problem this time. "Ain't gonna happen, Anonymous Guest." Tag replied:

Just post it and send me a link. I'd be more than happy to read it. Later, Tag.

After debating himself, he decided to post part of his novel—as much as would fit. If someone wanted to read more, he'd email it to them.

He found a good stopping point, which was somewhat of a hook, and copied and pasted it to a blank document; then posted it. He wondered how long it would be before someone read it. He didn't have an understanding of how people's stories made it to the open public to browse. He endeavored to find out. He clicked on the romance genre banner and under Newly Listed Entries he saw a story titled A Summer of Passion that was posted eight minutes ago. He scrolled down a couple dozen entries before finding Mae The Day Away.

"Who's the handsome fellow who wrote you?" He clicked on the suspense genre banner and the first entry listed was Red Trouble – sample chapter. Even though it wasn't published and he'd be lucky if a single soul read more than a page of it, he felt a swell of pride, having his own creation available to the willing public. Or unwilling public. More than that, Mae Clark had finally graduated from a single discerning set of eyes to an unknown plurality.

He decided to read Mae The Day Away, to see if it was as erotic as John Heines claimed it to be. And boy was it! By page two, Tag Taylor (you clever devil, swapping the B for a T!) was getting to know Mae Clark well. _Very_ Well.

It was arousing reading it. He couldn't remember writing a word of it, so it evoked the sensation of not coming from him, which instilled a sort of validity to Mae's existence.

After a three-paged sex scene, there was a page of rest and small-talk. Then two more pages of sex. Tag was getting exhausted just reading it. Poor Mae was getting hammered by Tag Taylor. He felt ashamed to be so crass, so animalistic to his beloved. She deserved better than raunchy hotel sex. Hotel sex fifteen minutes after getting rear-ended by Tag. She'd have more than one rear-end collision that day. He undoubtedly borrowed part of that sex scene from his second novel. By the time he got to the third and final sex scene of Mae The Day Away, a chime notified Tag that he had a new message. It was his old friend Anonymous Guest.

"My first fan."

It read:

Hey, buddy! I created a profile in your honor! Check it out!

Tag clicked the link. It brought him to a short story under the Other genre. It was titled 'untitled' and posted two minutes ago. Tag swiftly went to the kitchen to refill his coffee and hurried back. He was genuinely excited. Maybe he and Anonymous Guest could critique each other's works. Who knows? He cracked his knuckles and began reading with a smile, a smile that lessened by the sentence.

My name is Tag Taylor.

"Huh? My name is Tag Taylor? What kind of shit is this?" Bemused, he read on:

My name is Tag Taylor. Allow me to tell you a little story about a girl named Mae Clark whom I recently had the pleasure of sticking-it to. She was such a splendid little piece of ass. And while we were sweaty and recovering in the sack, she admitted to having a husband... Vengeance is his name. I wish I could tell you that I had no idea Mae was happily married, but come on, let's be honest here, the tan-line on her bare ring finger said it all. After aiding her in defiling her wedding vows, she told me about her husband. About how he spoils her rotten even though she doesn't deserve a fucking bit of it. Mae knows damned well that her husband is the best guy she'll ever meet (and could ever get), but having that same old cock for five years now was all she could stand. In fact, it was time to lay down. So on her back she went. She searched for the first asshole who would help her cheat on her righteous husband, and there I was! Fucking Fag Taylor at your service! And servicing guys' wives is my specialty! She got the full packaged deal, too. Lube and an oil change. Headlights checked (thoroughly), carpet sucked clean, trunk wouldn't open so I oiled it up and pried my way in and my how she screamed! If only Mae had told me at the time that her husband doesn't tolerate cheating bitches and has a fucking blast beating her sins the hell out of her, she'd probably be able to walk right now instead of popping pain-pills in bed and wondering how she's going to hide her bruises this time. Was it worth it for me?—to get a choice piece of strange ass? You bet! Do you think that I worry about Vengeance finding me and torturing me with a dull hatchet, one lopped off body-part at a time?—of course not!

But I should. Yes, I most definitely should. You're fucked.

Signed,

Hell's Fucking Fury

Tag panicked. Mistaken identity, that's all it was. There are hundreds of Mae Clark's in the world. Thousands even. A simple mistake. But how the message ended, how he signed it, that was an ugly coincidence. There was a logical explanation, he just didn't know what the hell it was.

He contemplated emailing him back, to explain that he'd made her up, but decided it was best to leave the situation alone. The psycho didn't know his name, so there was nothing to worry about. He lamented using such a close facsimile of his name, but the nut-job wouldn't know that. Even if he tried to find Tag, he'd give up when he learned Tag Taylor was a fake name. Tag wondered if the psychopath had noticed the newest Tag Taylor upload entitled Red Trouble, starring Mae Clark. If so, he couldn't have had a chance to read it yet.

He opened his portfolio and hastily removed both his posted works.

He shut the computer down and got in the shower, cycling the signed _Hell's Fucking Fury_ in his mind.

* * *

Molly put her hand on Tag's and glanced over at him. His eyes weren't on the big-screen, but instead veering around the theater nervously. She leaned over to whisper, "Tell me what's wrong. And don't say nothing, or this time I really will punch you in the balls."

"I think I'm coming down with a cold. Sorry for being a Debbie Downer."

"Aww, poor thing." She placed her hand on his thigh and crept upward while saying, "Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?"

He flung her hand away. She withdrew from him mumbling an apology.

He dropped her off at her apartment immediately following the movie, saying as little as possible. She trudged back to her apartment crestfallen.

### Chapter 28

In life, coincidences are as astounding as they are a-plenty. December 17, 1993 in a small town just west of Richmond Virginia, a man by the name of Arthur Rosen lived with his wife Bethany. Arthur had fallen in love with another woman, a married woman by the name of Jeanette. When Jeanette ended the affair, she ended Arthur's will to live. He wasn't the bullet to the brain or jumping off a bridge type. Not Arthur. Arthur was too chickenshit for a gory death. He blended a margarita and instead of salting the rim he used strychnine. Arthur checked out of this world at approximately 11:30 P.M. on said night, leaving behind his unsuspecting wife Bethany.

In the same small town just west of Richmond, a man by the name of Oswald Hurley had grown to hate his bitch wife Jeanette, but still loved her inherited fortune and wasn't ready to divorce that enormous pile of money. So he did what any loving husband would do and staged her death. He'd recount that they'd been having rodent problems in their garden so they bought rat poison. Jeanette, absent-minded as she was, would forget that she had applied the compound to her vegetable plants, and make a huge garden salad a couple days later, dropping dead shortly after. Jeanette checked out of this world at approximately 11:00 P.M. on December 17th, 1993. Toxicology reports would later show that Jeanette died of strychnine poisoning, commonly used to poison small vertebrates.

The coroner was busy that night, but at least she didn't have to travel far, being that both deaths occurred a stone's-throw away from one another. Oswald was distraught by his wife's untimely death and couldn't fathom how it came to be (though he had his story lined up for when toxicology reports would come back: "We did have rodent problems, is that what killed my sweet wife Jeanette?"). To Oswald's delight, his dumb-ass neighbor offed himself the same night and used the same poison that Oswald had fed his wife. Things only got juicier when correspondence was discovered between Arthur and Jeanette; it turned out they got to know each other quite explicitly. Arthur's simple suicide note was nothing more than an apology to his wife Bethany. He never mentioned that he and his neighbor Jeanette were telling each other I love you, and the final email correspondence between the two was Jeanette telling Arthur she didn't want to see him anymore, that she strove to be monogamous with her husband Oswald. That was learned information after the fact, discovered by detectives.

It was an open and closed case. Arthur couldn't stand that his lover rejected him, so he poisoned her and then himself. Oswald never saw the inside of a prison.

Who would have thought (until ten years later when Oswald was lying on his death bed and felt compelled to clear his conscience) that the two poisoning deaths—both with strychnine, both at the end of the same cul-de-sac, both intimately involved cheating spouses—were in essence unrelated?

In life, coincidences are as astounding as they are a-plenty, and on that seventeenth day of December, so many years ago, the biggest coincidence was this: while Oswald was feeding his wife strychnine, Bethany was next door mixing Arthur's 'suicide' cocktail and typing his suicide note.

Trent needed a coincidence as marvelous as the one Bethany and Oswald experienced. Like most people in or near Sacramento, he followed the news reports of a serial killer hacking up families in the same part of town where Mae lived. Maybe it was a coincidence, maybe a sign from God. Divine Intervention. Either way he had hit the jackpot. The stupid-ass news people were practically begging for a copycat killer, by describing the murders with the kind of detail that give homicide departments ulcers and early retirement programs. Duct taped hands and ankles, ankles to the legs of a chair, throats cut with a large knife. There would be no way he could pull off a carbon-copy murder scene of the real serial killer, but as long as it was damningly similar and he left no DNA evidence behind, police would be quick to theorize it was another attack from the serial-killer-at-large. The media would jump on the bandwagon with absolutely zero journalistic integrity, ask zero questions to anyone offering an opposing theory—ratings, publicity, new leases on Jaguars, better hair stylists—and would write the story as fantastic as their ambitions. God knows the police chief wouldn't want to give a press conference telling the good people of Sacramento that there isn't just one bad (bad!) man hacking up families, but two of them ("But don't worry, we have our best cops out there knocking on random people's doors and writing stuff down, underlining some of it. Sleep tight, Sacramento."). An opportunity this rich only comes around once in a lifetime, and the longer Trent waited, the more likely the real serial killer would get caught; the window of opportunity would slam shut in Trent's face.

Obviously the serial killer is an idiot. He didn't deserve the menacing title bestowed upon him by those salivating journalists—The SacTown Slayer. Ha! He was probably a burger-flipping homo cutting the throats of customers who complained that his food sucked ass. Won't be long before he's caught, Trent surmised. Targeting families exclusively in southwest Sacramento was the proof in the pudding. If he had any brains at all he'd mix it up a little and travel. Maybe shoot some people instead of cutting them so the cops wouldn't dump all their resources into hunting for what is so obviously a serial killer. "For fuck sake, mix it up by killing a few Mexican families—like anyone gives a shit about Mexicans." If anything, some of the heat on his tail would start chasing false leads as badged men smile at the fantasy of an English speaking America.

Plus there were perks. Being able to kill five times as many people on any given night (five families in the same house; it's not rocket science, people) is clearly a bonus. Trent had no doubt he'd make an excellent serial killer, but luckily for his would-be victims, he couldn't care less about people one way or the other. Killing them would be work and a waste of time. He was a purer breed of animal. His message to all: Don't fuck with me and I won't fuck with you. Mr. and Mrs. Clark-sucker must not have gotten that message (they should have gotten it—it was stamped in purple on Mae's body). "It's okay, Clark-suckers," Trent said in front of his TV, "think of me as a messenger-boy; I'll deliver the message in person."

He'd need to be meticulous in devising a plan. Anything overlooked could and would come back to haunt him. A nosy neighbor, a relative stopping by unannounced, a kid with good vision playing across the street. A double homicide might become three or four slain. Maybe more. Clumsy murders are like home improvement projects: once you begin you're never really finished.

He kicked his feet up on the coffee table, laced his fingers together behind his head and stared at one of his many pictures of Mae etched in memory. "God you have a cute little ass. I can't wait." Couldn't wait until she was his and only his. Fuck sharing Mae with a couple of self-righteous pricks.

He grabbed the phone and dialed the number from memory. The idea of putting Mae on speed-dial seemed too impersonal. Like cutting corners in his love for her. She deserved the best and he'd deliver it. The sound of Mae's sweet voice, "Hi Trent," elevated his spirits like a sniff of Columbia's best. "Hi, baby. I miss you so much."

"I miss you more," she said sincerely. "You sound like you're in a good mood. I figured you'd—"

"Be pissed about the tracking device? Pissed that I have to wait three years before I can be alone with my girlfriend again? Nah, I'm all aces over here."

"Wow. I'm jealous. I wish I felt as good about it as you. You'd really wait three years for me? Because we probably won't have many, if any, chances to... you know, be intimate until then."

"Things have a way of working themselves out," he said under his breath. "Sweetheart, I'd wait ten years if I had to." He shocked himself by the honesty in that sentiment. It wasn't just an extemporaneous remark, he really would wait ten years for her. Not that he'd need to. He'd only need to mark off a couple calendar days at the center of this April month. The fifteenth sounded good. April fifteenth was already murder on a lot of people, he'd just give the phrase a more literal definition. Same goes for deadline. He'd be carving a few of those out, he'd bet their necks on it. Death and taxes.

Trent laughed silently. "Mae, would you, hypothetically speaking, run away with me if I wanted you to?"

"Run away? Uh, I'll tell you how that would go. My parents would call the cops and you'd have a warrant out for your arrest. We'd live as fugitives."

"I'm sure you're right. But would you do that for me? Would you leave them to be with me?"

"I wouldn't. And only because I know we'd be found and you'd go to jail. I couldn't allow that to happen."

"I'm speaking hypothetically, Mae. Like what if we moved to Canada and got married? It's legal there at your age. We couldn't be separated, I wouldn't go to jail."

"I thought you didn't want to get married."

"Jesus Christ, Mae. Do you not know what hypothetically means?"

"Yeah, I do. Sorry. I love my parents, as strict as they are, but... well, I love you, too. I think I would." More confidently: "I would move to Canada with you and get married."

Trent smiled widely. "I love you too, baby. I'll let you go, it's probably about dinner time over there. Honey, do me a favor."

"Anything."

"Be careful out there. Don't walk outside alone, keep the doors locked. I'm watching the news and they're talking about the serial killer and it scares me to know that he's killing in your neck of the woods."

"I know, it's crazy. You should see how uptight people are around here. My teacher keeps giving us advice on how to protect ourselves if we encounter a stranger who 'doesn't feel right.' My parents are cautious, as we both know a little too well, so don't worry. They installed new locks on the windows and we have dead-bolts. I'm never alone, either. When I'm not at school, or 'the mall', I'm with them."

"Good. That's good to hear. I hope your folks have a gun to protect you. Do they?"

"No. They aren't into guns. But I overheard Dad telling Mom that they should get one, at least for the time being. Mom doesn't think it's a good idea because she's afraid that I'll find it and kill myself. She didn't say that, but she sure as heck insinuated it. I guess she has as little faith in the crazy pills as she does in me. I'm a _crazy thang,_ you know?"

"That's ridiculous. You aren't crazy."

"Crazy for you."

"So what are they using for protection since they don't own a gun? A bat? Golf club?"

"Who knows? In her argument against a gun, Mom insisted that new locks are good enough."

That would look beautiful engraved on her headstone, Trent thought. Rebecca Clark – Here lies a woman who insisted that new locks were good enough. Maybe the neighboring gravestone would read, David Clark – That bitch never did listen to me.

"I'm sure they're good enough. Listen, I know we just saw each other yesterday, but I'm dying to see you, Mae." He almost said he'd kill to see her; mistakes like that are aggregates of clumsy murder. "If only for a minute, I need to see you. Can I come by your house at midnight? Just for a kiss or two?"

"They're usually in bed by ten. Could you make it eleven so I don't have to stay awake half the night? I'd love to see you, too."

"Sure, eleven is fine. See you then. Love you, bye."

Trent wasn't in the mood to drive a total of sixty minutes tonight for a mere couple minutes with Mae, but he looked at it as something he had to do. It was prep for the day after tomorrow. The fifteenth. Mae would relock the window after Trent left, but he had a plan: he'd unlock another window during his visit. He'd have to distract her, but that was simple. The Clark's wouldn't check a window that they were certain was locked. If they did, he'd just have to make improvisations. He felt inserting a day between his visit and the double homicide made more sense than offing them ten hours after said visit. He couldn't risk Mae drawing crazy conclusions, like that he had something to do with it. She wouldn't, but why leave any room for doubt?

On the way to Sacramento Trent stopped by his mom's house. She was surprised to see him at such a late hour, but was happy all the same. Trent asked for a favor. He needed to borrow a nighty. Lingerie. She asked why. He said it was a long story. She trailed off into her room offering to brew him a pot of coffee. "No thank you."

Ms. Blackwood returned with a few satin pieces from the bottom drawer, none of which had been worn in fifteen years, she remarked. He chose the lavender nighty and thanked her. She remembered having a matching robe in her closet. "Sure, if it's not too much trouble. Thanks, Mom." The more the merrier, Trent thought. He'd ask Mae to go to the restroom and change into the nighty; anything additional would buy him that much more time. His mom was embarrassed to admit that she also had garter straps that her second husband had gifted her. "Ring me up, I'll take 'em."

The Chivas Regal-sipping Blackwood assured Trent that returning the old junk wasn't necessary. It wasn't like she'd ever wear it again, she added. He thanked her and wished he could spend more time with her, but he was on his way to visit his girlfriend. "Girlfriend? I didn't know you were seeing someone."

That ain't all you don't know about, he thought. Like, for example, the evening news of the fifteenth would be filmed on location at his girlfriend's house. And, here's another example, the history books would always be wrong about how many people the SacTown Slayer (who wasn't calling him that now?) actually killed. Call it a hunch, but Trent thought that the SacTown Slayer would be given credit for two more slayings than he actually committed. And the burger-flipping faggot would probably embrace culpability for them, too. They'd add to his legacy. Delusions of grandeur is the red-headed step-child of the serial killer.

He kissed his mother's cheek and departed.

### Chapter 29

Trent rapped lightly on the window. A smiling girl came into view, unlocked the window—unlike the previous occasion, it made a hefty sounding _thwock!—_ and slid open. He popped the screen off and hopped in. He kissed her before taking a seat on the bed. She was eyeing the paper bag in his left hand. "I have something for you." He dumped its contents on the coverlet. Mae grinned sheepishly. "Lingerie. You'll look amazing in this stuff. I won't leave until I see you in them."

"Okay. I'll put it on." She unbuttoned her pants.

"No-no-no. Don't you know anything about lingerie?"

Her expression said that she didn't.

"You have to put it on in the bathroom and surprise me with it. Brush your hair a little, too. Can't have you looking like a million bucks while your hair looks like a crow's nest."

She stepped to the nearby wall-mounted mirror to check her hair. "It's not that bad. But okay, I'll do it. Right now?"

"Right now."

She kissed him and left the room with a wad of silky fabric and garters, closing the door behind her. Trent removed the light-weight knit gloves from his rear pocket and kicked off his shoes, lest his shoe prints be found by the keen eye of a detective. In socks and gloves he entered the hallway.

There were four more doors in this hallway. One looked like a closet door. The one with a band of light under it would be the bathroom. The two remaining were probably bedrooms. He pressed an ear against one such door, identified a fan humming. He also heard a light snore. That would be the Clark-suckers. He approached the second door, carefully opened it. It was a guest bedroom. He entered. He looked out the window and saw the same side-house walkway that he used to access Mae's room. It didn't get any better than this. He unlocked the window more gingerly than Mae had and opened it to be sure it worked as advertised. He then closed the window, leaving it unlocked, and got the hell out of Dodge.

In Mae's room he removed his gloves, got inside his shoes and sat on the bed, heart thrumming.

A minute later the lingerie-wearing Mae ushered into view looking like something out of a Victoria's Secret catalogue. All that was missing were the angel wings, the phony cloud backdrop, and the token black chick standing off to the side bitterly wishing she was Mae. Trent was rarely stunned, but this did it. She was gorgeous, which was yesterday's news, but holy mother of God and Peter Paul and Mary did she look good in lingerie! Then he nailed it. He knew what gave her this new degree of gorgeousness—which was a dizzying concept in itself—it was her shyness and complete absence of self-confidence. For fuck sake, nobody in their right might should be timid looking like Mae did right now.

She was hesitant to see Trent's reaction, avoided his eyes. "I've never seen your equal, baby." He stood and pulled her into his chest, rested his cheek on the crown of her head. "Beauty beyond the boundaries of imagination. You don't need wings to be an angel."

Had there been any self-doubt in what he'd soon be committing (and there was none) it would have succumbed to the moment. He was doing the right thing, he felt it in his heart. He'd be able to see her whenever he wanted to from then on. There would be no hotel rooms, only Trent's apartment. No sneaking around, no Mae answering the phone and having to lie to a nosy bitch who had nothing better to do with her life than to make Mae's a living hell. Even though she'd never know it was Trent who killed her parents, he suspected that deep down she'd thank him for it.

"Mae, I'm still a little nervous about you being unprotected with this killer loose. You said that your parents drive you to and from school, right?"

"Yeah."

"Seems like they're always around. That's a good thing, in a time like this. Do they both work or just your dad?"

"Just Dad."

"What's he do?"

"He's the warehouse supervisor at Schwanns, a food distributor."

"Sounds boring. Does he put in long hours?"

"Not really. At least it doesn't seem like it because he's already worked three hours by the time I wake up at seven."

"Damn, he starts at four? How does anyone wake up that early?"

"I know, it's insane. He works five minutes away, so at least he can wake up a half-hour before clocking in."

"I imagine he gets home pretty early, seeing how he starts at four."

"Yep. Home at one, unless he works overtime. Why the sudden interest in my parents? I thought you hated them."

"I don't hate them!" he said indignantly. "I wish they were less strict, but they're good parents, that's all that really matters."

"You said that if they got in a head-on car crash like my last parents, the world would be a better place."

"I never said that. If I did it was a joke." Not good, man. Not good. Oh well, love is blind, right? "Well I'd better get going. Got a long drive and busy day tomorrow. Love you, baby."

### Chapter 30

Trent's window of opportunity was between 1:15 P.M. and 3:00 P.M. on Thursday, tax day. Mae would be home from school shortly after three and he needed to be long gone by then. He had an Art History class from noon to one, Anthropology from one to two, a gap from two to three that he liked to hit Burger King during, and Accounting 101 from three to four. Anthropology was the class on his mind. It was a pretty dead class and the professor was at least a hundred-and-twenty years old—probably received his education from Darwin himself. He always took attendance at the beginning of class and then began his lecture, drawing monkeys fucking frogs for the next fifty minutes. He could sneak out of class after attendance and book it to Sacramento. He'd take care of the Clark-suckers and make it back with time to spare for his accounting class. With only a one hour gap between classes, there would be no way he could drive to Sacramento and kill two people and be back in time for Accounting 101. Anthropology was the key. His confirmed attendance in that class and in Accounting 101 would be his alibi if anyone suspected him.

It would be of paramount importance that he obtain the Clark's submission immediately upon confronting them. A knife wouldn't cut it, pardon the pun. They didn't own a gun—Mae told him as much—but Trent sure as hell did. It was his dead father's .22 caliber Smith and Wesson. When he found it in his mom's closet years ago, Trent made it a part of his inheritance. She either didn't know that he took it or didn't have the balls to confront him about it. He suspected it was the latter. He had never fired the gun, and the bullets that were in the shoebox with the gun were at least as old as Trent, but that wouldn't matter. They could be blanks for all he cared. He was only looking for leverage, nothing more. Instant submission. Then put the knife to work. But he supposed it was nice having a loaded gun. Plan B, if shit went south.

Shit wouldn't go south.

### Chapter 31

This was a middle class Sacramento neighborhood. The majority of its residents would be dual-income families (save for the Clark's) and at 1:35 on a Thursday afternoon folks would be at work. Kids at school. Nobody witnessed Trent walking down the street and into the Clark's front yard. He donned a pair of gloves before clambering over the locked side-gate. The first window was the one. He popped the screen off and set it aside. The window chirped as he slid it open. Instinctively he reached for his .22. He waited a moment before hopping inside. He closed the window behind him to muffle any potential screams. Likely screams. He made a mental note to replace the screen after he was finished here. And unlock the back door. That would be how the SacTown Slayer entered the Clark's house, of course.

He furtively made his way to the hall with gun in hand. His biggest fear had been that they'd be in different rooms. God forbid one was in the backyard; a scream would trigger his alternate plan, which was messy and dangerous, but still doable.

The stars were aligned that tax day. The Gods must have wanted the Clark's dead too, because what he heard from the other side of the bedroom door—the same door that he heard snoring behind two days ago—now had an entirely different sound that was recognizable as fuck. They'd be naked and totally caught off guard. God bless horny old people. They probably had sex a lot between one and three, being the only time their precious little daughter wasn't home with the two of them.

Show time.

He opened the door and aimed his gun at the tangle of naked flesh on the bed.

* * *

They had no idea who he was, which didn't matter. What did matter was that they cooperated and did as commanded. He was tired of seeing the guy's package so he made him put underwear on. The bitch wife wasn't too bad looking for an old hag, but her naked body was a distraction so he had her put on a bra and panties. In his hoodie pocket was a small roll of duct tape—he made them tape their mouths shut. He led them to the dining room and had them sit side by side in sturdy wooden chairs. He wondered which of the chairs Mae sat in every morning eating her oatmeal before being force-fed crazy pills. He taped their hands together behind the chairs, ankles to the chair. That was what some news anchor had said about the SacTown Slayer's methodology; Trent hoped it was similar enough a job.

Trent needed to know something before he killed them. He warned the mother that he'd kill her if she screamed for help, then peeled the tape from her mouth.

"You're not the serial killer," she began with.

"How'd you guess?"

"He kills at night."

"You don't think a serial killer would change things up? Routine is the quickest way to get caught."

"You must be Trent."

"Does it matter?" She was way too smart for her own good.

"You're doing this because we won't let you see our daughter. Aren't you?"

"What the fuck do you think? Don't—"

"If you're planning on killing us, do you really think Mae will continue to be your girlfriend? Think about it." The woman exuded confidence. The husband seemed to take refuge in it, though it was hard to say with his mouth being taped shut.

"Already have. I'm not too concerned about it."

He supposed they read between the lines of what he just said because their demeanor changed suddenly and drastically. Confidence was uprooted, their panic was palpable. What were they expecting, a couple punches and a few idle threats?

"What I need to know is—" He was going to ask about the medicine, if she'd have serious problems coming off of it cold turkey, and what exactly was she taking anyway and why did they think she needed it? The woman interrupted him and veered the conversation in that direction without knowing it.

"Trent, please, you don't want to be with Mae. I know you think you do, she's a beautiful girl, but she's also a sick girl. Do you understand that?—she's sick. Don't kill us for a girlfriend you'll leave once you realize how insane she is."

"She told me that you think she's nuts. Crazy-pills. She's not crazy."

"Not when she's on the pills, she's not. She talks to people who aren't there. You're going to commit murder to be with someone who talks to people who aren't there? Sentenced to life in jail or worse? You're a good looking boy, Trent, you can find a healthy girl you won't have to commit murder to be with. Please think this through carefully before you live a life full of regret. Please, Trent."

"Does she really talk to people who aren't there? Because I can't imagine that."

"She hasn't since she began taking lithium. But if you go through with this, she won't be on the medicine that she needs and you'll have a delusional girlfriend. Is that what you want? A crazy girlfriend?"

"Fuck no. Where is her medicine? I want to see the bottle, make sure you aren't lying." He wanted the bottle so he could keep her sane after he killed her parents—if she truly was mentally ill—but there was no reason for truths. The grim reaper was the only other in the room and he could keep a secret.

They were in her purse on the counter. Trent pulled out a little orange bottle with pink pills inside. It didn't say lithium, but that didn't mean it wasn't. Perhaps generic or a compound with lithium in it. He only needed the pills until he could get a supply rolling in by other means—if she was truly mentally ill; still a big if. He'd have to take Mae to a professional to be sure. Having a mentally ill girlfriend wouldn't be the end of the world, as long as there was medicine to keep the craziness at bay. He couldn't fathom her talking to herself. It was Mae, for fuck sake, his perfect angelic being. "Is this all you have? Do you keep a stash somewhere?"

"I keep more in our room. Why?" She surmised the answer before he could reply. That's when the tears began.

Trent wished the woman had continued to bad-mouth Mae, calling her crazy and unworthy to be his girlfriend. It would have made what he had to do more enjoyable. Turns out that they did love Mae. At least the woman did. Her last words, delivered with tears and the calmness of voice that comes with accepting one's fate, were, "Don't hurt her. Don't ever hurt my sweet Mae." Of course he'd never hurt her. As long as she minded him and behaved as he knew she would.

### Chapter 32

After dropping Molly off from the movie, none of which he had paid attention to—it may have had aliens in it—Tag went straight to his computer. He didn't know if he wanted another message or not. He wanted resolution, that much he did know. And there was a chance that the psycho would issue an apologetic email, having somehow learned that it was all a misunderstanding. Surely he must have considered there is more than one Mae Clark in the world.

His stomach was in a knot as he logged on to his aspiringwriter-dot-com account, and it writhed when his inbox showed that he had one unread message. Anonymous Guest wrote:

Why are you doing this to me? Who are you and what did I ever do to you? Please don't post anything ever again. Signed, Mae Clark.

Tag felt like he was still at the movies, only this time he was paying attention. Close attention. "Impossible." No it isn't, she's just unfortunate enough to have the same name. That's all. He decided to email her and tell her just that. Tag wrote:

Mae, I am so very sorry about this horrific coincidence. Mae Clark is a fictitious character whom I created, and therefore I had no intention of causing you grief. I'm curious, how did your husband stumble upon my story? I won't post again.

Sincerely, Tag

P.S. Your relationship must be a nightmare. Why don't you leave him?

The thought of Anonymous Guest beating Mae pained him. Was he beating her? When the psycho had said she was popping pain pills and wondering how she'd hide the bruises this time, Tag didn't put much stock in it. But that was before Mae sent him a message. This hapless Mae Clark was being beaten by this clown, he was sure of it. That she was being terrorized and beaten because of what Tag had written inflamed his despair. He ignored the eerie similarities between her situation and his imaginary Mae Clark's. It questioned his sanity to do anything but ignore it in full.

Even though he didn't know a thing about this real-life Mae Clark, it was hard not to think of her as more than a stranger. After all, she possessed the heavenly name. It shouldn't matter, but it did. The same way that meeting a stranger claiming to be from your same small hometown is closer to your heart.

### Chapter 33

Monday morning Tag checked his account. There were two new messages, both from Anonymous Guest. The first read:

Tag (if that's your real name), I appreciate your promise to quit posting. I suspect he found the story by Googling my name. He does shit like that. He is fanatically involved in my state of affairs, to say the least.

Please don't insult my intelligence by insisting that your Mae Clark character is fictitious. You know full well that you were writing about me. Couldn't you have at least used a fake name for me? Even May Clark would've been fine! I'll give you the benefit of the doubt, that you didn't know what was in store for me when you posted your stupid little story. Maybe I could have played it off to my boyfriend as a coincidence if you hadn't mentioned my tattoo. As much as I'd like to know how you know me and why you felt it important to write what you did, I prefer to end correspondence with you at once. Deleting my outgoing and incoming messages may be good enough, but if it isn't and he finds a way to retrieve them (or God forbid he gets to them before I do), I don't want to fathom the consequences. For the sake of my well-being, please stop. Signed, Mae Clark.

The tattoo that he had endowed his fictitious Mae Clark with was described in full detail in his second novel, and passively mentioned in Mae The Day Away. It was of a Brown Recluse spider—commonly known as the Fiddleback spider—on the back of her hand, above and between her thumb and index finger. He made that up, just like the rest of her. It was like being stuck in an episode of the Twilight Zone. A coincidence can only go so far. He flirted with the idea that he was the victim of a practical joke. His intuition said that wasn't the case. There was no humor in threatening to lop off body parts and beat a girl to the point that she couldn't walk.

Had he met her long ago and simply forgot the encounter? It was possible. Highly unlikely, but possible. Tag broke his promise by messaging her:

Mae, I'm sorry to write you again but my sanity lies in your response to this letter. Is the tattoo on your left hand and of a Fiddleback spider, roughly the size of a dime? If so, I believe you are right and my creating your character is more than just a coincidence. It could only mean that we met before and I have no recollection of it. Meeting you obviously had a huge impact on me, that's why it is so utterly confounding that I don't remember it. I've written two novels, both of which you are the heroine. Don't worry, nobody has read them and there is no prospect of them ever becoming published books. Mae, I'm dying to know where we met. I must know! Could it have been high school? I graduated in 2006, at Pleasant Valley High in Chico. Did you go there? My name is Tag; I better not mention my last name because I'm more than intimidated by your boyfriend/husband. You referred to him as your boyfriend, but he recalled your marriage. I think I know why, too. Help me satisfy my curiosity and you will never hear from me again. I promise. Sincerely, Tag.

P.S. Would your boyfriend's reading of this really be so bad? He'd learn from its context that we are unfamiliar with each other and draw the same conclusion we have. Okay, maybe we haven't drawn any conclusions, but it's obvious my sexcapade story with you never happened!

Tag sent the message and sat in front of his computer, hoping that she'd respond quickly. Mae had mentioned that she was fearful of her psychopath opening the message before her, so that implied that she would check frequently to avoid that from happening. An hour later he had to abandon his wait to get ready for another long night at the Saucy Minx.

After doing a load of laundry he fixed a sandwich to eat while checking his account. And there it was. A new message, and this time it wasn't from Anonymous Guest. Tag was pleased to see his message was from MaeClarkisme. It read:

I created an account on my work computer so my boyfriend can't read our emails. I feel like a school girl again, parents forbidding me to see a troublesome boy. This is ridiculous, having to sneak around like I'm having an affair.

He is my boyfriend, not husband. He refers to me as his wife but has no intention of ever being married. And as to why I don't leave him, I've been-there-done-that. Big mistake. Leaving him is not an option, but that's none of your concern now, is it. He's not always so bad, anyway. And if it seems to you that I've been avoiding mentioning his name, it's because I have. It's probably just paranoia on my part, but over the years I've learned to trust and act on my paranoia and with good reason. If you ever did something like stalk him or call the police because of the fights or whatever, he'd kill me. I know that's a term often used and rarely interpreted in its literal sense, but sometimes it's meant exactly how it's said.

I went to Piedmont High, Sacramento, and graduated in 2008. I live not far from Chico, in Oroville. This must be how you know me. You must have seen me in Oroville because I haven't been to Chico since getting my tattoo (a tattoo that's a couple months old) and were close enough to me that you could decipher the type of spider. And from what you've written about me, specifically you and me (cough, cough), I can see that I've left quite an impression on you.

Whatever you do, don't post anything on your portfolio because it will be read by him. We shouldn't even be messaging each other. So now that you know we've bumped into each other somewhere in Oroville, could you please stop messaging me? No need to respond to this letter. Signed, Mae Clark.

Tag replied anyway:

I can't not respond! Please believe me when I say that the thought of additional harm finding you because of my words is a constant worry afflicting me. I don't think that I could live with myself knowing that what you wrote earlier, about him killing you, if that came to be. This is all my fault.

I'm embarrassed to admit that I'm quite fond of you (you, whom I've long referred to as my protagonist Mae Clark). To say that I've been infatuated with my creation of Mae Clark would be understated. I have genuine feelings for her and I know that makes me insane or pathetic or both. But then this most extraordinary thing occurred, and I learn that the feelings I've fostered for Mae aren't a result from an unnatural attraction to a figment of my imagination. They can't be, if my Mae Clark is a real person. My attraction must have been like a seed that was planted when I encountered you, and has since blossomed. I hope this isn't scaring you, but I have the feeling that your boyfriend is monopolizing all of your avenues of fear. And for what it's worth, I really am a harmless bugger.

I don't know how to respond to you claiming your Fiddleback tattoo is only two months old. In my second novel, written over a year ago, I describe Mae as having that same tattoo. How can this be?

I really need to see what you look like. Could you send me a picture of yourself? If you don't look as I imagine, I'll dismiss this as either the world's most uncanny coincidence or an elaborate joke at my expense. But you and only you know if that's the case. If your photo matches the Mae that I've come to know and love, I'll accept that our paths have crossed. Please respond soon! Sincerely, Tag Baylor.

After he sent the message he realized that he used his real last name. It shouldn't matter, seeing how she was using her work computer and has a password.

He remained logged on to aspiringwriter-dot-com and surfed the web to kill time, thinking of nothing else but Mae and praying that she'd respond before he left for work.

Mae must have been expecting that he'd message her because it wasn't long after that when he received another message. It read:

If you wrote a story about a Mae Clark with a Fiddleback tattoo a year ago, than I am relieved to know this is nothing more than just that: the world's most uncanny coincidence. Borderline supernatural, mega lottery odds. To me it makes more sense that you're psychic. However, you were wrong about which hand it is on (it's on my right). I'll take a picture of myself right now with my camera phone and send it to you to satisfy your curiosity, and only because I'd want to see me too if I was in your peculiar situation. Now that we've sorted this out, I trust that you'll stop with the emails? (I've only asked a few times now) Take care. Love, Mae Clark.

P.S. Picture is uploaded as an attachment.

Tag opened the attachment and consequently forgot to breathe. It was as if the Mae Clark of his imagination had been a crude painting of her—not quite life-like, but close enough that her beauty was appreciable—and in the picture she was brought to life while maintaining the features he had bestowed upon her with the stroke of a pen (or keyboard). The truth was in the photo: he'd met her before in the past. He couldn't have remembered her appearance to a tee if it were many years ago, that's why it gave him the sensation of a rough sketch being brought to life. It made more sense than being psychic. He never believed in psychic powers.

Yeah, there was that trifle little problem with the spider tattoo. Two months versus a year. He didn't dare ask Mae if her boyfriend's name was Trent. He was trying to build a case for his sanity, after all. But what if he had encountered her many years ago and they chatted for a while. She might have said how much she'd like a fiddleback spider tattoo some day. Hell, maybe she was already dating Trent at the time (let's face it, the guy's name is Trent) and told Tag about her abusive relationship. And life story. It made sense in the most unlikely way, but it was the only theory that made sense. And it would help him sleep at night. It would spare him a trip to the head-doctor. It was a dry grassy meadow he had build his tinder-house of sanity upon, but as long as he kept it away from fire he was in the clear. Less questions, more assumptions.

He scrutinized the picture and noticed her left eye had more makeup than the right, and wondered if she was concealing an injury. A black eye. The idea angered him. She was more beautiful than he could have (and did) imagine, and there wasn't a chance in hell that he was going to let her slip out of his life. Especially with some dirt-bag abusing her.

"Shit." Chewing a fingernail he wondered if this meant Trent had killed her parents. Tag took a deep breath and rubbed his scruffy face. "Nah, I fabricated the vast majority of it." She only had to mention her abusive relationship and desire for a fiddleback tattoo. That's all. Simple, really.

Then why did it feel like so much more?

Another message chimed in. It was Mae stating that she didn't mean to sign that email Love Mae.

Tag printed out her picture in full size and wallet size. He knew Kade wouldn't recognize her, but decided to show him the picture and ask anyway, if for no other reason than to see if he was alone in considering her the most beautiful girl on earth. He cut the smaller picture from the printed paper feeling somewhat like a stalker. Was he going to stalk her? He didn't want to answer that honestly.

Tag knocked on Kade's bedroom door. A hoarse voice asked him what the hell he wanted. Candor was never something Kade suffered without.

"It's three o'clock, don't you think it's time to get up?"

"Who are you, my mom?"

"Yes, I'm your mom. I'm coming in." Tag opened the door and entered. It was mostly dark, a few bars of light shone from between broken blind slats. "Look at this picture, tell me what you think."

"Hit the lights," Kade said and sat up.

Tag turned the light on and immediately wished he hadn't. Kade sat up, naked, at the edge of his bed. His hair was a tousled mop of oily black hair. "Jesus, Kade. If I have to see you naked, could you at least not have a hard-on?"

"I have to piss! And don't act like you aren't impressed."

Tag handed him the photo. "What do you think?"

"Who is she?"

"Mae Clark."

"Name sounds familiar. She's cute. Really cute."

"She's perfect."

"If you want my boner to go away, it doesn't help handing me this."

"And her name should sound familiar, my protagonist in both novels is Mae Clark; but then you only read, what, two pages? Three?"

"I guess there are two big dicks in my room." He stood and took the boxers and jeans off his computer chair. "You met a chick with the same name as the one in your books? That's a little crazy. You plan on stalking her?"

"I'm thinking about it," Tag kidded, but the words came out too naturally. He probably would've passed a polygraph with that answer. At least he didn't know where she lived. It's harder to cross the line when you don't know where it's drawn.

Kade put on a Led Zeppelin tee-shirt, tight and faded. "Let me see that again?" His voice registered high. Like he just remembered he used to date her back in the day. Tag handed it over.

Examining the picture, Kade said, "Huh. You'd think I'd have remembered seeing this hot little number there."

"There?"

"The dentist," Kade said as a matter of fact. There was nothing in the picture to signify it being a dental office. Only a framed picture in the background, a filing cabinet off to the side, lots of white paint, and a beautiful girl.

It was the framed picture.

### Chapter 34

After business as usual at the Saucy Minx, Tag entered his apartment at 3:00 A.M. to a different kind of Kade. On the couch, beer in one hand, gun in the other. The place was trashed. Tag was used to trashed, but there was nothing ordinary here. Kade watched amusedly as Tag fixed on the coffee table (what was left of it) and said, "Your coffee table might need to be refinished. Whaddya think?"

The coffee table was decimated. It was kindling in a heap with a coaster sitting comically on top. "What the fuck, Kade? What did you do here?"

"Oh sure, blame the roommate. By the looks of things, I ransacked the place before having a little fun with an axe. Go check your room, the fun doesn't end here."

"Who did this?"

Kade shrugged, took a pull from his beer.

"I'm calling the police," Tag said and reached in his pocket for his cell.

"Don't bother. They left a couple of hours ago."

Tag went to his room asking if they were robbed.

"Nothing of mine is missing. I'd figure a thief would take my laptop and iPod. Let me know if anything of yours is missing."

Tag's room was in disarray. His bed was a jumbled mess of springs, cleaved cotton, memory foam, and tattered sheets. His computer wasn't stolen, but it was now an art project of plastic shards, circuit-boards and glass. "Damnit! Why didn't you call me at work?" He returned to the living room and added, "Can you not wield your gun while you're drinking, psycho?"

"Check your cellphone, Bro'cifer."

Tag saw that he had three missed calls from Kade. "Oh, sorry. You know how loud it gets at work when it's busy. Fill me in."

"I got back from class at seven and this is how it was. Why?—no clue? Who?—I'd love to know myself."

"How's your room? Did he fuck up your bed too?"

"My room's fine. Maybe the psycho got exhausted from destroying your room. Oh, there's a card on the counter. Officer Pettis. Looks like a young Barney Fife. You need to call him tomorrow and let him know if you have any enemies who might have done this. Or any pertinent information at all."

"The cops care? That's a first."

"That's the most intelligent thing you've said in the three years I've known you. They probably wouldn't have cared if some whacko broke in and trashed our place without stealing anything major or killing anyone. But they do care because of what else happened."

"And that is...?"

"That damned dog downstairs won't be waking us up anymore."

"The boxer? It's dead?"

"I didn't see it in the flesh, but judging from the sheet that was draped over it, I'd guess it has a lot in common with your coffee table."

"Killed with an axe? You're kidding."

"Dude, I wouldn't kid about that. That dog, even though I hated it and wished it would get killed by an axe or a stick of dynamite or a meteorite a hundred times, it was still the pet of that cute little kid, whatsername."

"Sheila. Ah, man, that poor thing."

"The dog or Sheila?"

"Sheila. No love lost with the dog. So this guy broke into their apartment too?"

"No. I'm not sure what happened. But I do know it happened outside; the leash was attached to its carcass."

"So Sheila was taking him for a walk? She saw it happen?"

"Piggy Pettis was pretty sure that Sheila saw it happen, but she denies it. Denile is Chico's largest river, you know. What scares me is that it was still light out when Paul Bunyan got to work hacking shit up. If that's not a blatant disregard for getting caught, I don't know what is."

"Did anything else happen? Just the dog and our apartment?"

"That's all. Unless something else happened that hasn't turned up yet or I don't know about. So tell me, Tag, _do_ you have any enemies?"

"No." But he was thinking of one. Had been thinking of one from the moment he stepped foot in the apartment. One named _Hell's Fucking Fury_ , though his driver's license would name him Trent Blackwood. "No. Especially one who would do this. It's just the luck of the draw that he broke into our place. Bad luck." Words like luck and coincidence were becoming staples of Tag's vernacular.

"And destroyed your stuff but not mine? Bad luck again? And you keep referring to this douche-bag as a he. Maybe it was a she."

"Girls don't do this kind of shit."

"I'm pretty sure that it's not in our nature to hack up kids' pets and destroy people's apartments for sport, either."

"If it was an axe, it was a guy. A girl would use a gun or something."

"I'm just saying, you have a way with girls. Maybe you upset one. Maybe you really pissed one off. Maybe you pissed the right one off on a heavy flow day. One who missed a few doses of her medication."

"No, Kade. Didn't happen. And yes I do well with women. The drunk ones. And at closing time. So don't paint me as a lady-killer, please." Tag sighed and said, "I guess I can sleep on the couch. I'll have to get up early to buy a bed. Damnit. I can't afford to be buying a bed and a computer."

"I feel bad for you, bro. And a little guilty that my stuff is all in one piece. You can use my computer until you get a new one, since I basically just use it for email and porn. You write most of my papers, anyway."

"That will help a lot. I appreciate it. Might be a month before I have the cash to buy a new one. Is that cool with you?"

"Yeah, whatever. Just buy a bed and sheets for now."

"I have some old sheets."

Kade stood. "I'm going to bed. You should try checking your cellphone once in a while. It's fucking annoying not being able to reach you."

"You're right. See you tomorrow." Tag had a thought. "Hey, would you mind letting me sleep with the gun? You're in your room, I'm out here. If he breaks in again I'll be split in two before you get a chance to shoot him."

"Sure. But would you shoot a girl?"

"Fuck off, it ain't a chick."

"Oh? Whoever came in either had a key or I forgot to lock the door. And can you recall the last time I forgot to lock the door?" Tag couldn't. "Neither can I. You think a guy would be more likely to have a spare key to our place than a chick? We don't have many guests; the ones we do have are chicks, man."

"You must have forgotten to lock the door."

"If I did I'm sincerely sorry."

"Don't be. If it was locked, he probably would have chopped our door down and we'd have to buy a new door, too."

* * *

After a bowl of cereal and a short conversation with Officer Pettis over the phone, Tag threw away in the communal dumpster his heap of computer parts and splinters of coffee table, sheets and mangled mattress. He then set up Kade's laptop on his now-empty desk (empty but not free from cleave marks) and checked his aspiringwriter-dot-com account. He had no messages, and that was just fine by him. There was no scent of fire in his tinder-house of sanity. He sent a message to MaeClarkisme:

Hey, Mae. I'm probably wrong in thinking this, but did Trent come to my apartment yesterday around five or six in the afternoon with an axe and a temper? And destroy the place? And kill the downstairs neighbor's dog? I know how ridiculous that sounds, and if it wasn't for the fact that whoever did this used an axe, I wouldn't be asking you. Your boyfriend threatened to use a hatchet on me. I hope you're okay. I can't stop thinking about you. I think we should get together. What do you say? Signed, Tag.

Tag adjusted his account options to include his personal email address, so whenever he got a message it would be sent to his G-mail and his phone would alert him. He wasn't sure if referring to Mae's boyfriend as Trent was a good idea or bad one, but if he was right she'd have a hard time blowing him off. She'd start seeing the light that was now blinding Tag.

He parked his Corolla in front of the Minx. Inside he swapped keys with Dallas and promised him he'd fill his truck up with gas. His first stop was Goodwill. If he could get a bed cheap there, that would help a ton. They only had a single bed and a queen. The single was too small and the queen smelled of urine. So much for discounted beds.

At Sears he bought a discounted queen bed, wrote a check for just under three hundred. Tag was grateful that Dallas had a camper shell over his truck-bed. Having his new mattress blow out of the truck while cruising along was so easy to imagine that he'd be surprised if it didn't happen. With the help of a Sears employee he loaded it in the truck.

Driving home he passed Olive street—Diamond Smiles had an Olive Street address—and felt an overwhelming urge to stop by and see if Kade was right. "Fuck it. Why the hell not." He merged quickly and turned onto Broadway. His heart was racing. He made his first right and then a quick left back onto Olive Street. Seconds later he was parking at the dentist office. Maybe he'd have recognized the place too if he went to the dentist more frequently than once a decade. Maybe not; surely there were several dentist offices in Chico, small as the town might be. Tag thought it dumb luck that Kade not only had an uncharacteristic regard for his six-month dental checkups (paid by his father's insurance), but that his dentist was that of Mae's Diamond Smiles. It fit well in the current theme of Luck and Coincidence. There was no time like the present to begin a habit of playing the lottery.

After locking the borrowed truck he checked his cell for new email. He had none. His heart hammered as he neared the office. The cool breeze against his nervous sweat made the season feel less like spring and more like winter. Tag opened the door—a door that his Mae had opened an untold number of times. Maybe her germs were transferring to his hand from the iron handle at that very moment. "You're certifiably insane, you know that?"

Inside, two women in purple scrubs were on the employed side of the counter, with another woman in nice clothes seated and showing Tag her polite face. Tag smiled at her; she returned it. Her glossy white teeth looked well taken care of.

"Good afternoon. Do you have an appointment?"

"No, sorry." He scanned the walls behind the receptionist for what Kade had been alerted by and there it was: a framed portrait of a red-headed ginger girl with freckles and bangs—it wasn't easy to distinguish between the freckles and mud that specked and mottled every inch of her filthy little body—clutching a dripping ice-cream cone and smiling ever so widely at the camera. Her teeth were immaculate. Maybe air-brushed. They were the only part of that kid that didn't beg for a high-pressure wash and a gallon of soap. The caption read: Because Nobody Likes A Dirty Mouthed Kid.

"I was hoping you could tell me if Mae is working today." Her brow drew in. Tag knew at once she didn't know the name.

"Mae?"

"Mae Clark?"

"There isn't a Mae here, hun."

"But that picture," he nodded to the wall behind her. She looked over her shoulder as Tag produced a wallet from his pocket. "See?" He showed her the wallet-sized photo. "Same picture."

"It's the same, but so are all our offices."

"There are other Diamond Smiles?"

"Six."

"Is there one in Oroville?"

"On Cypress Avenue, yes."

"Great. Thank you."

Tag returned to his borrowed truck as he crunched numbers in his head. It was five o'clock. He had to work at seven, and it was a twenty or thirty minute drive to Oroville (times two). He had to get his bed set up as well. Decisions, decisions. He removed a quarter from his pocket and said, "Heads I go to Oroville, tails I take care of business here." He flipped the coin and slapped it on the back of his hand, peeked. Tails.

"That's no good, the coin needs to land freely and without me navigating it." He reached out over the passenger seat and flipped the coin. It bounced off the seat and onto the floor. He leaned over. Tails.

"Nah, it can't touch the floor. Everyone knows that." He flipped it again and it bounced off the seat and onto the floor. "Damnit." He leaned over to find that it was heads this time.

"Heads, huh?" He took a deep pensive breath. "Guess I'll go then." The only thing left to decide was bring the bed home now or after. He really wanted to see Mae now, so that decision came pretty easily. Besides, he didn't have time if he wanted to spend more than a couple minutes with Mae.

* * *

It was half-past five when Tag parked in the crowded lot of the building identical to its Chico branch. It was a single floored building, remote, and had one tree in a planter centered in the parking lot; no other vegetation as far as the eye could see. Tag hated Oroville. Too many tweakers. Admittedly this was the good part of town, but tweakers could travel. They are a resourceful bunch. What the hell was Mae doing living in Oroville, anyway? She was too good for this rotten town. Probably the decision of her piece-of-shit boyfriend. Trent? He had no doubt that was his name.

His hand encircled the ornate iron door-handle on a glass door—not as streak-free as the Chico branch—and the idea of touching Mae's germs returned. A fluttering of nerves reminded him of being in high school. He suddenly had to pee. Or was it that he just noticed? He laughed at himself (nervously) and entered.

Inside was a cookie-cutter copy of the Chico branch, with the exception of the girls behind the counter. Two were unattractive even by Kade's standards. A third wasn't too bad: tall slender blonde, lank hair drawn into a pony tail, bare minimum makeup. A lady in a dark gray pant-suit greeted him and asked if she could help him. She didn't ask if he had an appointment, probably because there weren't any appointments remaining this close to closing time. Either that or this office was a front and not a dentist office at all, but rather a methamphetamine lab and these employees were all in on it. All in on the take. The few people sitting in the reception area weren't waiting for their loved-ones but waiting for their meth orders to be filled.

"I hope so. Is Mae Clark working?"

The lady rolled her eyes. Tag couldn't believe she just did that. No class. Then again, he was in Oroville. "No. Called in sick. Again." Emphasis on again.

_What a bitch_. "Happens a lot?"

She snorted and asked if there was anything else she could do for him.

"Will she be back tomorrow?"

She looked around, as if she were about to whisper where he could score some really good meth, even better than the stuff they made in back, and said in a low tone, "I doubt it. And not just because she'll likely call in sick again. Management doesn't much care for excessive absences."

Tag matched her volume. "So you think she'll lose her job?"

A shrug that said I don't know, but I do know. "I'm sorry, you are...?"

"Her friend Ta—" _Are you stupid? You saw your coffee table, did you not?_ _You want your body to look like that?_ "Adam. Her friend Adam. How long has she worked here?"

"Oh... a couple months? Maybe longer. Hard to say, seeing how she likes her time off."

"Do you dislike her?"

"She's all right. I've had to come in on my days off more than I like to remember because of your friend. Adam, I can't shake the sensation that I know you from somewhere. Have we met?"

"If you've ever had drinks at the Saucy Minx, probably we have."

"Saucy Minx?" Her brutal face got uglier with that unknowing expression.

"Bar in Chico. I know you're going to say no but I'm going to ask anyway. Can I get her number and-or address?"

"You say you're a friend and you have neither? What kind of friend are you?"

"The kind who's concerned and has no way of helping her unless you help me. What do you say? Pretty please?" He felt like one of the many desperate pig-squealing drunk girls in the Minx at closing time.

"Not a chance."

"Yeah, that's what I thought." Same outcome, too.

A purple-scrub-wearing office girl—the only marginally attractive one of the lot—had been listening and came over. She leaned in, peered at Tag with her blue-green eyes, and in a tone that really shouldn't be saying this, said, "Her boyfriend called earlier and asked for our fax number. He faxed a doctor's note. I passed it along, but"—her eyes, the color of the Pacific ocean on an overcast day, peered even deeper into his—"she's going to be out for a while."

"Gee, what a surprise," said the bitch receptionist.

Tag narrowed in on the eavesdropper, matched her optical intensity, and said, "What did it say? May I please see it?"

"Are you stalking her, Adam?" the uglier said. "I'm thinking you are."

"Yeah, I'm stalking her," Tag said dryly.

"Sorry, I can't do that," the nicer one said. Tag wondered if he was a lunatic for noticing that her blonde roots were the same color as its length, drawn back into a pony-tail, and thinking it might be worth remembering. It surely wasn't, but he was functioning on some primal, instinctive level. He fancied himself a detective and strove to take note of everything. Like the meth lab that was called Diamond Smiles. Maybe absurd, maybe not. His senses were heightened from being in the same room that was intimately familiar to his Mae Clark. It didn't seem possible that there was any information he could gather here that would be considered useless. Not when his case was Mae Clark. "I already passed the fax along, anyway. Are you a friend of her boyfriend?"

"I don't know if I'd use the word friend. Maybe enemy."

The straight line of her full lips—here was a place she had decided wouldn't go make-up free; a blush colored lip gloss—widened almost imperceptibly. Tag would've noticed it from the door in his current state of awareness. She looked up at the wall-mounted clock, then Tag. Those pretty eyes knew things. And they weren't the eyes of a tweaker. In her defense, just because she worked in Oroville didn't mean she lived here or was raised here. Tag looked up at the clock and then back to her, trying to convey to her that he was willing to receive a cryptic message.

"We'll tell her you came by to see her," said the bitchy one. That was her closing the door on the conversation.

"Don't bother. Thanks for your time."

The tall blonde stared raptly at Tag, but gave no impetus for him to stay. He took a deep breath as he walked away. He glanced back: the bitch was working her chubby fingers on a packaged Little Debbie; the nice one remained fixed on Tag. She glanced up at the clock, then back to Tag. It meant something. He nodded once and left.

He sat in the pickup truck with the door open for a half-hour, most of which was spent debating himself. It isn't a waste of time narrowly edged out it's a total waste of time. It was six o'clock, which had to mean everyone in Diamond Smiles was wrapping it up. It also meant that he started work in an hour, which consequently meant that he'd be pulling up to work in Dallas's truck with a bed still in the truck-bed. That wasn't a big whoop. Life would go on. He'd have to ask Dallas for another favor, that's all. Dallas was still somewhat new at the Saucy Minx and eager to please the senior bartender.

Fifteen minutes past the hour was the boiling point for Tag. He'd spent too much time to throw it all away inconclusively, but he needed to be getting to work. He was now pacing the length of the truck and watching the double glass-doors like a hawk. An older Civic hatchback, blue with tinted windows, pulled up beside him. The passenger window lowered. The office girl with lank blonde hair smiled at him. A prettier smile than he would've guessed. He wondered if he was a detective in a previous life.

"Hi," Tag said. "I didn't see you come out."

"Back door. Want to go get a drink?"

_You've got to be kidding me_. How could he have mistaken her body language? She just wanted to be asked out. He was probably a shitty detective in a previous life. "Uh, I don't know. I have to be getting to work."

She frowned. "Then why'd you wait?"

"I uh..." She had him there. "I don't know. I guess I misinterpreted you. I was hoping you wanted to tell me about Mae."

"So let's do it over a drink. I'm not hitting on you, Adam."

"Oh," he said enthusiastically. "My name is Tag, actually, and I really do have to work soon. In Chico. Bartender, free drinks. Would you mind going to Chico?"

"I live in Chico. The Saucy Minx?"

"How'd you know?"

"I was listening. I'll see you there."

Dallas was cool with keeping the Corolla overnight, as Tag knew he would. Dallas warned Tag that Tank showed up earlier than usual having gotten in a fight with his parents over funding of the education that mostly produced C's and D's, and was well beyond drunk. "Thanks for the heads up," Tag said over the screaming Axle Rose, welcoming the Saucy Minx denizens to the jungle. There was an ornamental bull-horns attached to a plaque advertising Shiner Bock, and he wondered how a bra got to be hanging off one of the horns. As Dallas headed for the door, Tag removed the bra and tossed it in the trashcan behind the counter. One of the regulars at a table booed.

Tag cut lime wedges, incessantly looking at the door. There were enough Corona ornaments before Tag had arrived, but his mind was elsewhere. Tank was perched on his usual stool like a twenty-years-younger Norm from Cheers and began telling a story, slurring every word of it as he went. It was the story of his lousy parents—Tag had heard this one before. "Tank, not today, bud."

"What? What the fuck, Gab? What kind of sh-horse shit z'is? I pay for atmosphere, not jus' tin and gonic."

"You know I love you, but not today. I have a friend coming in."

"Oh, and I'm not your fren'? Is that what I'm bean told, Tab?"

Tag closed in on the inebriated Tank and said, "I'll tell you what. Go shoot pool, it's on me. I'll give you a free gin and tonic, too. A double. Tanqueray. Just give me some space tonight. Deal?"

It was a deal. But for two double gin and tonics, not one. Tank staggered to the pool table bragging of his incredible luck to the two other guys playing pool at the neighboring table.

The nameless girl entered the Minx at the tail end of dusk. Tag had already decided that he wouldn't ask what took her so long. When he saw that she had exchanged the purple scrubs for a Hawaiian summer-dress and was now wearing makeup, he knew why she took so long. The smell of ale and cheap liquor permeated the long narrow room; he was pleasantly surprised to smell her perfume over it. She smelled like a lone flower in a Milwaukee brewery. "Howdy. Thanks for coming."

"Sorry I took so long. I'm Amber, by the way. Are you still Tag or is there a new name?" She sat at the bar. Her slight but toned arms heaved a sizeable leather purse on the dark wooden bar before her. She extracted her phone and checked it, then returned it.

"It's still Tag. I was trying to be incognito earlier."

"Why were you trying to be incognito?" She surveyed her environment without expression. It was her first time here. He was undecided if she was old enough to be in here, but on this rare occasion he didn't give a shit.

"I'd rather not get into it," he replied. She sure polishes up nicely, Tag thought. It was hard to believe she was the plain girl in scrubs only an hour or two ago. She looked a little like the daughter of Goldie Hawn—Tag couldn't remember the actresses name for the life of him. She probably didn't look enough like her to mention it anyway. And it wasn't the kind of ice breaker he needed. It wasn't eighty-proof enough.

"So it's going to be like that, is it?" she said. "I tell you what you want to know about Mae and you don't tell me anything? Sounds fair to me."

Tag humored, asked what she'd like to drink. "Anything on tap." He gave her the memorized list, it was a short one. She requested a pint of Guinness. He poured it, placed it on a napkin in front of her and gestured to put the wallet back in her purse. She thanked him, returned the wallet, then gestured Tag to come closer. He inched forward. She gestured closer. He got within kissing range, smelled her peppermint breath. A hand came out of her purse and pressed to his forehead a round sticker with a graphic of a tooth caricature smiling. It said Great Job! on it, though he wouldn't know this until later when he looked at himself through the neon-lit back-mirror.

Before he registered what had happened, she was grinning bashfully. He looked up but couldn't see his forehead. He wondered why she'd do that, decided it didn't matter. She was playful and in good spirits and that worked for him. Worked great. The sticker would stay for the time being. Maybe it would be disarming and elicit some information from her.

"I'll tell you everything you want to know, Amber, which isn't much."

"You know enough that you wanted to be incognito looking for her. I can only guess why."

"Go for it," he said as he poured himself a Guinness, feeling quite ridiculous with a sticker on his forehead. "Guess."

"You're afraid of him."

He tilted the glass to remove excess head staring obliquely at her. "I'm glad you came. And you're right. What do you know?"

"I know that I want him to die a slow and violent death." She said it in such a pretty and calm voice that Tag had to replay what she had just said. She sipped her Guinness and sat it down.

"Damn. I appreciate the honesty. What else?"

"I'm not comfortable talking to a stranger about this."

"But you're comfortable enough to say you want him to die. Hmm." He produced a pair of shot glasses. "I have a solution. Liquid courage. Name your poison."

"I told myself I wouldn't drink and drive anymore. Oh well, huh?"

"Where do you live?"

"Cherry Street. Over by Riley's Pub."

"I'll drive you home if you stay till we're closed. Otherwise I'll call you a cabbie and pay for it. And tomorrow I'll even give you a ride from your house to your car. Fair enough?"

"Tequila."

"Now we're talking. Have a favorite?"

"Yeah, but I'll settle for Cuervo."

"No you won't. Patron? Profidio?"

"Patron is fine."

"Then Profidio it is." He reached to the glass top shelf and pulled down a hand-blown bottle with a cactus inside and uncorked it. He poured two shots and returned the bottle. Two more shot glasses were placed beside them. Tag filled them with Jägermeister. "To Oroville sucking?" Tag offered his shot to toast.

"I'll drink to that."

They slammed the first of two shots.

Tag inquired into Mae again and still sensed a little apprehension. Not enough courage in the liquid. He changed directions and asked about herself. She gave the abridged version—twenty-one, junior at Chico State University, majoring in economics, Diamond Smiles pays tuition and bills—and put the ball back in his court. He delved into his background, hoping it would lower her guard a little. What his words might not accomplish, maybe the smiling tooth on his forehead would. More importantly, she finished her Guinness and both shots of tequila.

After Tag placed a fresh pint of black stout on a napkin before her, he decided he'd take a chance and tell her about what he knew of Mae, and how he knew it. It was a short story because there wasn't much to tell.

"I've always liked writing, so one day I took a stab at a novel. It practically wrote itself. My main character is a girl named Mae Clark. I assumed I was creating her, not recalling her from memory. I don't know when or where Mae and I have crossed paths, but it seems we had to have for me to describe her as accurately as I have. Even down to the fiddleback tattoo on her hand. It's hard to explain why it's so important that I find her, that I meet her in person. You grow to love your fictional darlings, and Mae has really impacted me, even before I knew she was a real person. In my novels, I've written two, both of which Mae is the heroine, she was the victim of abuse. In the first novel it was her parents, and in the second novel she had a piece of shit boyfriend named Trent Blackwood. He beat her." He then told her of the messages he'd been exchanging with Mae and the ones he had received from Anonymous Guest. She said nothing, just sipped her beer and listened attentively.

"So you met her and don't remember," she mused.

"I guess so. How else can it be, right?"

She nodded. "And she told you about Trent."

"Is that his name?"

"You just said it was."

"I know, but I also thought I made that name up. Mae hasn't mentioned his name to me."

"Trent is his name, yes. I didn't know his last name is Blackwood. Thought it might be asshole. Cocksucker, maybe."

"That fax from the doctor earlier, what did it say?"

Amber's eye's sharpened, lips tightened. Tag thought she looked cute when she was angry. "She's admitted to Forest Pine hospital. Seems our clumsy little Mae lost her footing going down the stairs of her porch. Again." She hiccupped.

"Fell down the stairs? That's the oldest crock of shit in the book."

"And considering her porch doesn't have stairs, it's quite a feat."

"You've been to her house?"

She nodded as she took a sip of beer.

"Co-workers and friends?"

"We're not close friends, mostly because Trent doesn't let her do anything." She stared vacantly at her Guinness. "I wish we could be more." She quickly amended, "Do more."

Tag scrutinized her, wondered if it was a Freudian slip. "That's cool, Amber. I hope you aren't embarrassed about it."

She looked up. "About what?"

"You know what I mean. We share the same plight."

"I'm not gay."

"You say it like it's a bad thing. It's no biggie. You like Mae. I can relate." He grinned at her; she grinned back. She had one of those grins that you want to take home to Mom and Dad. She resumed her solemn gaze at her glass and repeated that she was not gay. "Okay, you're not gay. But you like Mae. What's not to like, right?"

"Nothing. There's nothing not to like."

"Damned straight."

"Yes I am."

Tag laughed, stealing a smile out of her. "Reminds me of There's Something About Mary. Everyone loves Mary, men and women alike. There's Something About Mae."

She hiccupped. "Yes there is. She's awesome."

"Are you a little drunk, Amber?"

"No." Another hiccup. "Maybe a little."

Tag laughed again. "You're cute, Amber. I like you."

"What about Mae?"

He suppressed more laughter, tried to maintain an aura of professionalism, but it's hard when you're buzzed—and that damn tooth was still smiling on his forehead. And Amber was fun. "It'll be our little secret."

"Okay. Secrets are good." She took a long drink and hiccupped mid swallow. A little beer drizzled down either side of her chin. She sat the empty glass down and wiped her mess. "I get the hiccups when I drink. Like those old cartoons where they sing How dry I am."

"I see that. Does Mae know how you feel about her?"

"She knows I like her."

"She knows that you like-her like-her?"

"Your job is to put beer in my mouth, not words." Tag crossed his arms, put a closed hand over his mouth and chuckled. "I'm glad I amuse you," she said.

"You're funny, sorry. Do you have a boyfriend, Amber?"

She shook her head. "Are you propositioning me?"

"What if I was?"

She shrugged. "You like Mae, not me."

"And you like Mae, not me. Have you ever had a boyfriend?"

"What's the hang-up, Tag? Fuck. Who cares who likes who? This is supposed to be about Mae and Trent. Why the twenty"—hiccup—"questions?"

"I don't know. You're right, this is about Mae. I'm sorry."

"I've had boyfriends, okay? Do I get any more drinks or am I cut off?"

"As many as you can handle."

"Famous last words. Can I get a Slippery Nipple? You know what that is?"

"I do. Coming right up." He began mixing the drink—one part butterscotch schnapps, one part Irish cream. "I think I'll visit Mae at the hospital tomorrow before work. Forest Pine, right?"

"Yep. In Oroville."

"You should come with me."

"I can't. I'll be at work."

He handed her the Slippery Nipple. "I don't understand why Mae doesn't go to the police. He'd go to jail."

"Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, he'll make her pay for it. Jail would just put her suffering on hold." She put an elbow on the bar and rested her head in her hand, rolled her eyes up at him. "It's not just physical violence that Trent is so wonderful at dishing out. Physical is probably the lesser of two evils."

"He's good at fucking with her mind?" He knew that Trent was.

"He's pro. Literally. He's a professional."

"What's he do?"

"If you wanted to fuck with peoples minds so much that you'd do it for a living, what profession would you consider?"

"No way. He's a shrink?"

She grinned wanly.

"This has to stop. I don't even know her but I can't sit idly by and let this prick ruin her life."

"I was hoping you'd say some version of that. That's why I'm here. That's who I hoped you were when we met at Diamond Smiles."

"Maybe I'll kick his ass. How might that go?"

"I'll be there cheering you on. Other than that, I have no idea how it would go. I've never even seen him. Well, other than his silhouette in his truck."

"God this sucks. I feel responsible. I am responsible. I know he did this because of what I wrote. He probably read our emails, or who knows, maybe he saw the picture she'd taken of herself on her phone and jumped to conclusions. She said this would happen. I should've just done what she asked and stopped emailing her."

"Don't blame yourself. He'd have found some other reason to hurt her if it wasn't that. It's like it bottles up in him over time and eventually he needs an outlet for it and she's a great outlet. She's a hundred-and-twenty pound stress-ball-squeezy-thing. It's only a matter of time before he takes it too far. The day is coming."

"You think he'd kill her?" She didn't answer. "What do you suggest we do?"

"Me? What do I suggest?" She took her head off her hand, straightened up and exhaled. "You wouldn't do it."

"Try me."

"Beat him like he beats her. Be sure to get your elbows nice and deep in his kidneys so he'll pee blood. Pull his hair out, but not in too big of clumps, or else people might notice. Throttle him so he can't speak, so he can't beg you to stop hurting him. Get inside his head and make him feel like he deserves what you're doing to him." With a straight face she said, "Make that wicked heart of his stop beating. End his life. Murder him."

Being a weekday, the Saucy Minx was empty by midnight. Even Tank was long gone. Amber and Tag remained and were both working on a pot of coffee. He had swept and cleaned earlier and the place was nearly ready to be closed before the last customer had left. Amber was drunk and Tag wasn't far from it. He insisted on driving her home but she refused. She said they'd share a cab and that was the end of the discussion.

His apartment was the closer of the two so he gave the cabbie his address. She gave Tag her phone number; he entered her as a contact. She did the same. He had one missed call coming in at 10:00 P.M., from Kade. It was just after 1:00 A.M. when the cab pulled up to Tag's place. He said it was the most enjoyable time he ever had at work. She was flattered. He kissed her forehead, had long forgotten about the tooth on his, and headed for the stairs, took them two at a time. There was a note on the door in Kade's shitty handwriting: In case you didn't get my voicemail, I changed the locks just to be safe. Peace, Kade.

He knocked. Then rang the bell. No answer. He looked down the street and saw the cabbie's tail-lights diminishing. He phoned Amber.

"Miss me already?"

"No. Bit of a problem. Could you turn that cab around?"

"Uh, yeah." She lowered the phone and relayed the message.

"See you in a second, bye." He ended the call and immediately listened to his voicemail: "Sup, dude? I changed the lock on the door, just in case I did lock the door the other night and the bitch had a key. Better safe than sorry, right? We got two new keys. I left your key under the welcome mat. I'm spending the night at that chick's house from the other day. I forget her name, the one who can cook. Later, Tater."

"At least you didn't write the location of the key on your note." He deleted the voicemail and lifted the welcome mat. No key. "You've got to be shitting me. Are you fucking retarded, Kade?"

The cab pulled up to the curb. Tag descended the stairs while calling Kade. No answer. He left a voicemail with several expletives and hung up. He opened the back door of the cab and said, "I'm locked out. My roommate has the I-Q of a piece of chalk. I guess I'll get a hotel room."

"Do you want to stay at my apartment?"

"I couldn't ask that of you."

"After how many free drinks you gave me, I owe you more than a single night's stay and a smiling tooth sticker."

He looked up (still couldn't see the sticker) and peeled it off. "Are you sure? I don't mind getting a hotel. Money's a little tight, but I can manage."

"Come on, get in. You're staying with me. You mind sleeping on the couch? If not you can take my bed and I'll stay on the couch."

"You'd do that?"

"Yeah, why not?"

He shook his head, got in and the cabbie shifted into drive. "I kind of hope Mae doesn't find out how you feel about her," Tag said.

"I'm not gay," she insisted. "But why do you hope that?"

"Because you'd be hard for her to resist, gay or not."

"Aww. That's without a doubt the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me."

"Ever? Nah, that's just a figure of speech."

"No it isn't. Do you mean that, Tag? Do you think Mae would have a hard time resisting me?"

"Geez, even in this dark cab I can see you glowing. You sure you don't want to come clean and admit it?"

"There's nothing to admit. I'm not gay."

"We're all a little gay sometimes."

The cabbie looked back and agreed. "At least a little."

"Your tip just got bigger, my man."

"Woohoo! And my wife said that nothing good would ever come from me experimenting with gay porn. Shows how much she knows."

Amber laughed. Tag watched her affectedly. She was a million times prettier than he remembered at Diamond Smiles.

She gave him a guided tour of her apartment, which consisted of a bedroom, a small living-room, tiny kitchen alcove, and bathroom. He wouldn't be getting lost. She brought a blanket and pillow to the couch and repeated her offer of the bed. He called her bluff. "Sure. Sounds good."

"Okay. I'm going to switch pillows, though. I don't want your drool all over my down-pillow."

"Maybe I don't want your down-pillow all over my drool."

"Easy for you to say, you haven't felt my pillow."

"Would you let Mae feel your pillows?"

"Is that a euphemism for my boobs? Is that where we're at in our relationship now? Boob jokes?"

He bowed his head, feigned being ashamed. "Yeah."

She went for her pillow and returned with the kind of quickness that a tiny apartment affords. "Okay. It's all yours."

"I didn't think you were going to let me sleep in your bed. I tried calling you out on it. Didn't work. I'll sleep on the couch."

"If you keep it up, I'm going to be a full-blown lesbian by morning." Tag humored. "This couch is hardly comfortable. I have a king bed. We're adults. Would you like to share the bed?"

"Uh... nah, I'll sleep out here."

"Yep. Rosie O'Donnell by morning. I hope I look good with short hair."

Tag laughed again. "For the love of God, stop making me laugh! All fucking night long! My side is going to be sore tomorrow." He caught his breath. "And you got it backwards. I'm sleeping out here not because I'm unattracted to you."

She repeated slowly, "Sleeping out here _not_ because I'm _un-_ attracted to you. Not. Un. The two negatives cancel each other out, I think. I'm not great at math. So that would make it, I'm sleeping out here... because I'm... attracted to you." She blinked at Tag. "I must have done it wrong. Was it my math?"

Tag covered his face with the pillow and laughed into it. When he uncovered his face, it was pink. "I'm losing my mind."

"Why do you laugh so much? Nothing's funny. Are you coming to bed or not? There's plenty of room. I don't snore."

"Yeah, why not. Sleep with plenty of clothes on, please."

"I must be too drunk to understand what that means. Did you just say sleep with plenty of clothes on?"

"Means I want you to make yourself as unattractive as you can. Inaccessible I mean. Lots of clothes."

"I could tape a pickle to my groin. Would that help?"

"No!" he said and cackled. "I like pickles!"

"You'd grab at my pickle?"

He rolled over on the couch.

"And _I'm_ the one who's supposedly gay," she muttered inwardly.

"Stop it!" He gasped between guffaws of laughter. "I can't breathe!"

"Okay, I'll stop talking. You have a very strange sense of humor. I'll be in bed. Don't worry, I won't dress sexy. Sexily? Sexy?"

Tag sat on the couch for a while, meditated to steady his breathing. He wondered how much of his hysteria could be chalked up to alcohol. He kicked his shoes off and debated sleeping in his boxers or leaving his jeans on. Wearing jeans in bed is a wretched feeling. He left them on and went inside Amber's room.

It was dark inside. A sound machine was playing forest sounds. An owl asked who Tag was. Once he arrived at the bed he heard wheezing. Part of him was disappointed, the part that was in his jeans. He slid under the covers and sank his head into the plush pillow.

A few minutes later he opened his eyes. For some annoying reason he wanted to see what she was wearing. Maybe she had a pickle or a banana taped to her inner thigh. The thought brought back the laughter, though he kept it silent. He lifted the comforter and sheet, using the light of his cellphone to inspect Amber. The laughter was no longer silent. She awakened from it and scowled at him.

"A ski jacket?" he said and roared laughter.

"You said dress heavy! Heavily? Heavy?"

"But, but a ski jacket?" His laughing affected her. Her frown became a grin. "Are you wearing ski pants, too?"

"I don't own ski pants."

He pushed back the bedding to see for himself; Amber resisted his effort, pulling them back up. "What, I can't see? I've got to know. Rubbers? Chinos?"

"It's kind of personal," she said.

"Just like a ski jacket is personal?"

"Fine, you little bastard." She lowered the bedding, exposing her pink cotton panties, then covered back up. "Happy?"

"No." Tag had sobered. "I wish I didn't see that. I thought you'd have something funny going on down there."

"You are nuts. Certifiably insane."

"I guess so. Night, Amber." The panties ended the laughter at least.

Tag dreamt that he and Mae were on a grassy plain under a wide-open night sky, full moon. Flowers that might have been yellow but were golden under the moonlight fluttered with the breeze. They held hands lying side by side on a blanket. Mae leaned in to kiss him. She wore a ski jacket, but it meant nothing to him. The kissing grew more passionate. She rolled over on top of him, now kissing his neck. He went to undo her pants but she wasn't wearing any. He took the jacket zipper by her neck and unzipped it all the way, then parted it, exposing her bare breasts. Perfect breasts. Not large, not small, but perfect, with small peach-colored nipples that were erect. He helped remove her panties. She helped him remove his pants, then boxers.

Once inside her, he felt immeasurable pleasure, the kind that dreams are indifferent to. And why shouldn't it feel so good? It wasn't a dream. Not to Tag. Not to Amber, either. When his eyes opened, so did Amber's.

Her jacket was opened. And like Mae, Amber's breasts (not large, not small) were exposed. Tag realized they were having sex the same moment Amber did. Her eyes became as large and round as silver dollars. She rolled off of him at once.

"I'm so sorry," she said. "I don't know what happened." She buried herself in the covers and wriggled as far away from him as the bed allowed. All Tag could see of her was a wisp of ash blonde hair.

"I was having sex in my dream," Tag said. "I probably initiated it."

"But I was on top of you." In her muffled voice was shame.

"I hope this isn't traumatic for you, me being a guy and all."

" _I'm. Not. Gay!"_

Tag scooted beside her and lowered the bedding to her waist. She stared at him as though he were a doctor putting on a latex glove. He combed his fingers through her hair and caressed her cheek. He slowly went in for a kiss, anticipating her leaning away from it. She didn't. A deer in the headlights. The kiss landed. She kissed him back. He maneuvered his hand under the flap of her jacket and over a breast. She was aroused.

"I guess you aren't gay after all," he said softly. "It's not the first time I've been wrong." He helped her get out of the jacket while kissing her neck.

"Tag?"

The way she said his name, part moan and part murmur, aroused him greatly. "Hmm?"

"I am gay."

"Very funny." He sought to lower her panties but there were none. That's right, they would be off, considering what they were doing only a moment ago.

She pulled his shirt up and he allowed it to be taken off. She got on top of him and put him back inside her. She kissed him as they swayed into a rhythm. "I'm not kidding. You were right about me."

"Then why this?"

"I must be bi. Learn something new every day."

Tag parried her humor, but appreciated the words just the same. "If I were gay, I think I'd turn bi right now, too." Their tempo increased. "Does this mean you're a... you've never been with a man?"

"I have. A wo-man."

"Please don't make me laugh right now."

The corners of her mouth upturned. "I should've known it was a dream. Girls don't feel like this." She moaned. "But then again, I haven't been with Mae."

"Don't be offended, but I was dreaming I was with Mae."

"Me too."

* * *

Amber rolled off of him. They stared at the dark ceiling and breathed deeply with the crickets chirping, an owl hooting. She thanked him, said she loved it, and don't tell Mae about this, please. He wouldn't. They smiled at each other.

"It was so pretty," she said dreamily. "We were on a prairie under the stars. The full moon was too big to be real."

"On a white blanket? Were there golden flowers?"

"You had the same dream?"

"What do you suppose that means?"

"That we're still asleep, dreaming right now?"

"I like you, Amber."

"I like you."

"I mean, I want to see you again. Get to know you better. Learn who Amber is."

"I know what you meant. You've already learned the best part of me." She gestured at her body.

"That's not the best part of you. It's good, damned good, but not the best." He tapped her head.

"Is it true that people always remember every little thing about their first time?"

"Very much so."

"Good."

### Chapter 35

Amber came out of the bathroom in purple scrubs and wet hair. Makeup was minimal. She possessed a vibrant glow today. Tag wondered why he didn't find her as attractive when he met her yesterday. He supposed he had Mae on his mind: that'll do it every time. They left the apartment when the cabbie honked out front.

They were headed to the Saucy Minx. Tag wished Amber would accompany him to the hospital.

"I would if I didn't have to work."

"Can't you call in sick?"

"Yeah, but I need the hours."

"What if... it's Thursday, right?" She nodded. "I was going to call Allie to help serve drinks tonight. She gives us a hand when we expect a crowd. What if I didn't call her, and instead you can serve drinks tonight? It only pays minimum wage, but it's under the table so no taxes. And with tips you'll do well."

"Just for tonight?"

"Yep. Call in sick and go visit Mae with me."

"I don't know, it's awfully short notice to call in sick. They'd be pissed because Mae's already out sick. They'd be understaffed."

"Tell them you fell down the stairs. Seems to be going around."

She made a mean face. "Fucking prick, Trent."

"Do it for Mae. She'd love to see your face, I bet. Or do it for me. I love seeing your face, too."

"Would I make at least a hundred bucks? More like eighty, after taxes."

"Easily. Wear something slutty and you'll do well."

"Then I'll wear you."

"Me? I'm slutty?"

The cabbie chuckled. Amber scowled at him, told him it was an A and B conversation so C your way out of it—and oldie but goody.

"Yeah you're slutty. You slept with a girl you don't know. If that's not slutty, what is?"

"It takes two to tango, sucker."

"It doesn't if you own a corded shower-head like mine. And I was taken advantage of last night. A victim. I'm innocent in all of this."

"Uh-huh. I didn't hear you complaining."

"I was in too much pain to complain. Penises hurt." The cabbie looked back. "The road is over there," Amber said and pointed.

"You regret last night," Tag said solemnly.

Amber leaned over to peck him on the cheek. "I was kidding. I loved it." She retrieved her phone from her purse and made the loathsome call to the office.

* * *

The cab pulled away from the Saucy Minx. Tag grimaced at the sight of his bed through the camper-shell window of the pickup truck. He forgot about that. Amber offered to drive to Forest Pine hospital. What a pretentious name for a hospital in Oroville, Tag thought. There were probably a dozen trees in all of Oroville, none of which were pines.

The ride there was quiet. Mae was on their minds. It was just after 9:00 A.M. when they arrived. Amber allayed Tag's nerves by assuring him that Trent would be at work, therefore Mae would be alone in her hospital room. He said he didn't care, that he hoped Trent was there so he could whoop his ass. Amber pretended that it wasn't a lie.

In the large nearly-vacant reception room, they arrived at the front desk. Amber explained to the unassuming lady behind the counter that she was Mae Clark's sister and wanted to visit her. Tag quickly added that he was her brother. He didn't sound as convincing. She checked her computer, shook her head. "No Mae Clark." More clickity-clacking on the keyboard, then, "No record of Mae Clark. You must have the wrong hospital. Did you try Mendenhall?"

"It's this hospital," Amber assured. "I saw the form. Maybe she checked out?"

"No, dear. No record of a Mae Clark."

"Oh, you probably spelled it with a Y. It's M-A-E."

She typed and entered. "Mae Clark." She leaned and read. "Last record of her was six years ago, if it's the same Mae Clark. Born in sixty-eight?"

"No. Wrong Mae. Hmm." She looked at Tag for suggestions. He had none. "Thanks anyway."

They left the building and sauntered to the Honda. Tag wished she had Mae's phone number.

"You know how many time's I've thought that same thing?" Amber said.

"I don't get it. Why don't you have it?"

"I'm shy! Sue me!"

"You're friends! Friends give each other their numbers!"

"Don't be mad at me."

"I'm not. It's just frustrating."

"I probably would've asked her for it if I didn't have a crush on her. I worried that if I asked her for it, she'd think I was gay and hitting on her."

"Well if the shoe fits, wear it."

"Thanks, Tag," she said, offended.

"I'm sorry. Being shy just makes you that much more amiable." They got inside the car. "You said you've been to her house?"

"Once. It's been a while, but I think I remember how to get there. Should we?"

"Yes. I really want to see her." Tag wondered if that would bother Amber. Things had changed since yesterday. She alleviated his concern by smiling her eyes. "You don't have her number but you went to her house?"

"She was having a get-together and all of the office girls were invited."

"Trent was there, I assume."

"No. Like I said, I've never seen him. Well, vaguely when he drops Mae off at work, but there's a dark tint on the truck windows. And the party was a girls-only party." She looked at Tag and said, "Go ahead, let's here your smart-ass remark."

"Sounds like your kind of party? There's a party at Mae's house and everyone's coming? Multiple times?"

She giggled. "It's hard to be offended by you. You're too much of a sweetheart." He thanked her. "She had a couple of them, get-togethers, all a few weeks apart. She was into that Creative Memories crap. You know, scrap-booking? She became a rep and had parties to sell that happy-go-lucky bullshit. She hosted them on Saturday evenings. I think she chose that time because Trent was never home then. It didn't last long though, the Creative Memories stint. Trent made her quit. I went to her first party and spent a hundred and thirty bucks. I didn't use a damn bit of it."

"You couldn't say no to her, could you?" He bit his lip to keep from smiling.

"Like you could have. I didn't go to her other get-togethers because it's an awfully expensive way to get to know Mae better, you know? Besides, not much alone time with her. A bunch of stupid women giggling and talking about which dentist is cutest." She gagged. "Mae isn't like that. She's more like me." Tag thought she was beaming.

"You think she likes girls, too?" Tag asked.

"No clue."

"You don't have gay-dar?"

"Tag, I swear to God..." She laughed. "And you wonder why I wouldn't come out with it yesterday." She shook her head at him. "Gay-dar only works when the person is at least slightly flamboyant, and that's men only. With women it's different. And not every gay person looks or acts gay. How about me? You didn't think I was gay when you met me, did you?"

"I'm not gay so I don't have gay-dar. Of course I thought you were straight."

"Yeah, well," she muttered, "after last night, I'm starting to wonder myself."

"Am I turning you straight?"

She wasn't surprised to see a cheese-eating grin. "You have your moments. College is for experimenting, right? I needed to experiment last night. That's what it was."

Tag wasn't grinning anymore. He sighed and gazed out the side window. She wondered if that really hurt his feelings and decided that he wasn't a good enough actor to feign dejection.

"Don't tell me you have feelings for me already," she said thickly. "Do you grow feelings for all your one-night stands?"

"Yes. For all of them. I have so many, you know?"

"How many?"

He shook his head dismissively.

"Come on, let's hear it. You're hot; a bartender in a college town. How many, fifty? A hundred one-night stands?"

He said nothing as he watched the shoulder of the road blur by.

"More?"

"None."

"Ha!"

"After hearing what you just said, maybe one."

"Me?"

He nodded.

"Bullshit. No way. It didn't take much for you to have sex with me. So all the other girls get shot down? No way. I'm not even that pretty."

"I have to say, Amber, you're really making me second guess things. I guess it's for the best."

"What do you mean?"

"I thought it was a special evening, as corny as that sounds. I've become callous to being flirted with and loathe the idea of casual sex. It has nothing to do with how I was raised, has nothing to do with morality or virtue, it's just not in my wiring to sleep with someone I don't care about. Once you start fucking people who hold no meaning to you, it lessens the experience when you have sex with someone who does. Eat nothing but bread for ninety-nine meals out of a hundred, and on the hundredth eat a filet mignon. It will taste otherworldly. But if you eat that same filet mignon all the time, how special can it be? Same with working hard and taking a much-deserved vacation. Those days you're on vacation are divine. But if you're unemployed, every day is a vacation and it gets old fast."

"Yes, people become jaded."

"Exactly. Dulled by overindulgence. The best things in life should remain special, which means enjoying them in moderation, or seldom even. Back to what I was saying, about casual sex. I've never cared about someone I just met. In fact I've only developed feelings for three girls; two if you don't count Mae, who until recently was nothing more than a result of a keyboard and vivid imagination. Last night was an anomaly for me. Never before and probably never again will it happen. You just ripped apart whatever special meaning it had for me by treating it like we were two drunk horny college kids looking to release some endorphins."

"I did not." She considered it for a moment. "I did, didn't I? You're right. I had no idea. It was special for me, too. More than special, it was my first time with a guy. I guess I just assumed that it was a typical night for you. A defense mechanism, I suppose. I'm sorry for devaluing it."

"That's all right. You've redeemed yourself." He touched her thigh and said, "I don't know what it was, last night. It's uncharted territory. I'm not easily impressed or drawn in, immune to seduction, but last night... I wanted you so badly."

"I have a direct line to your base desires, don't I?" She playfully made a seductive gesture at Tag, including running her tongue across her upper lip. She giggled before he could respond, said, "I believe I do, only it's not my feminine wiles that do it, but my sense of humor."

"It's everything. As much as I'm attracted to you physically, I'm equally attracted to you emotionally, mentally. I've never been in love, but how easy it would be to fall in love with someone like you."

"This is difficult for me to admit to myself, but I wanted you last night, too. I mean, I was glad when you said you would come home with me. And when you said you'd sleep in bed with me. I wanted you to sleep in my bed, because I thought you'd try to seduce me and I told myself I'd turn you down, but deep down I knew I wouldn't. But I had way too much to drink and fell asleep before I had the chance to give you an opportunity."

Amber turned onto a cul-de-sac. She pointed to the house with no cars in the driveway and said that was it. She parked on the street. It was an upper middle-class neighborhood. Every house was two stories and modern. Dull colored angular houses, dramatic landscaping, three car garages weren't the standard but the minimum. A hefty Home Owners Association fee was more than probable. Mae's house was gray with blue trim—daring by the neighborhood's standards—well manicured yard and hedge.

Tag rapped on the door.

"Just a minute," said a muffled female voice.

It was quiet as hell out. Why are upscale neighborhoods always so quiet? Aside from the meager birdsong, there was utter silence. And aside from Amber's Honda, there were no cars visible in any direction. In a neighborhood like this, cars would park in garages—cars almost exclusively of the imported luxury variety. It was easy to imagine themselves as the only two people on earth (if you discounted the muffled response to Tag's knock a moment ago).

A minute had come and gone. Tag knocked more assertively.

"Just a minute!"

Amber and Tag met eyes, shared the same somber expression, jumped to the same grim conclusion as to why she might be delayed, owing to the ugliness of domestic violence. Before opening the door to a guest, a victim is likely to either apply makeup or change into clothes that would cover up bruises. It was something Mae had been doing nearly her entire life, making it second-nature to her. She never felt sorry for herself. There was no self-pity. When all you know is physical abuse, you have no notion of what life could be like under the right circumstances.

From the ages of three to ten she was beaten like a mangy dog. The blood she had shed in those six years could fill buckets. Luke had worn out three belts during those years of whipping her ass, legs, arms, and face; whippings that increased greatly in intensity during the summer months, when there was no concern for Mae having to miss school due to her appalling appearance. During the school year, her abusers were forced to be more inventive. Luke had frequently bruised his knuckles so badly punching her that he had a special ice-bag reserved for the occasion perpetually waiting in the freezer. She had been choked innumerable times, hair pulled out so frequently that people joked about her hair stylist being either blind or epileptic. Sometimes God rights wrongs, and in the case of Mae's kidnappers, they were dealt with justly.

Then Mae enjoyed a respite of a few years where she was treated kindly, a peaceful era that ended abruptly upon meeting Trent. Things picked up where her abusive kidnappers had left off.

The door finally opened. Mae looked at him before fixing on Amber.

"What brings you by?" Mae directed at her.

"I just wanted to see you. Is that all right?"

"I..." She stared dubiously at Tag. "I don't know. Who is this?"

"I'm Tag," he said tentatively, winced internally in anticipation of her response.

She glowered at him, a real _fuck you_ glowering, then at Amber. "Could I have a word with you, Amber? Alone?"

The two went inside. The door closed on Tag's face. He took a seat on the patio's bench seat and leaned his head back against the stucco wall, drew a deep breath, exhaled through his nose meditatively. Deathly quiet indeed. He couldn't hear the girls, but he could see them as clear as day, in his mind. He summoned Mae's recent image, cherished it in all its splendor. It was as though he'd seen someone most dear to his heart for the first time in years. Decades. And she was content to go a couple more decades.

The girls sat angled toward one another on the living room couch.

"What's going on here?" Mae asked accusatorially. "How do you know him and why did you bring him here?"

"Is it such a bad thing?" she said timidly.

Amber looked small on the couch, gathered warily into herself. Mae had never witnessed her acquaintance so demure and ostensibly vulnerable; a woman who was inherently confident and extroverted, in stark contrast to how she carried herself now. She avoided Mae's probing and judgmental eyes. Maybe it was because one of Mae's eyes was bruised and poorly concealed with foundation; makeup that was likely applied between Tag's first knock and Mae's opening of the door.

"Yes, it is such a bad thing," Mae said. "Tell me what's going on."

"I met Tag yesterday at work. He came to see you. We wanted to see you, that's all. It's innocent enough, isn't it? I'm sorry that you're upset."

Mae exhaled loudly, took extra care getting off the couch—Amber noticed she winced in doing so, compliments of Trent—and went to the large front window, peered through the open Venetian blinds at the guy sitting on the bench. He was leaning forward, chin resting on folded hands. He looked like a poster child for some pharmaceutical advertisement, Prozac perhaps—the before picture.

"I'm not mad at you," Mae said, her eyes never leaving Tag. "It's just, well, you know. If Trent finds out..."

"Yeah, I know, alright. I know more than I'd like to. Mae, it's not right. You need to do something. You can't live like this."

"Don't give me advice," she said crossly and turned to face Amber, "about something you know little about."

"I know enough. Can Tag come in? He should be part of this conversation."

Mae scoffed, "What is this, an intervention?" She huffed loudly. "If Trent has a hidden camera or microphone or something, you know what will happen to me? And Tag? And _you?"_

"Then let's take a drive in my car and talk. The three of us. Please, Mae?"

As angry as Mae was, she found it difficult to refuse someone so sweetly sorrowful, somehow who in all estimations seemed to deeply are about her. She never would have guessed Amber cared for her, let alone enough to be doing this. "I'm not allow—" She started over. "Trent dislikes when I leave."

"Please?" Amber's tone was exceedingly desperate. Mae found it difficult to say no to her, as much as she hated the idea of leaving the house, and the punishment that would go along with it.

The front door opened. Tag stood. The girls came out hand in hand, a gesture of solidarity that was surely initiated by Amber. Mae closed and locked the door behind her, muttered something that might have been, "I hope I don't come to regret this decision." They maintained their silence till they got inside the car. To facilitate eye contact with Mae, Tag chose the seat behind Amber in the cramped rear quarters of the Civic hatchback. He felt the need to duck forward to avoid the ceiling.

From the front passenger seat Mae threw a nasty glare over her shoulder at Tag. "Exactly which part of my email led you to believe that I wanted to see you? Huh?"

She gave him a couple seconds to answer. He was thinking, when he should have been responding. "Answer me!"

"I'm sorry. Really I am. But I had to. I know you don't believe that I know you, that I know as much as I do about you, that we aren't strangers, but it's true. I had to see you in person. It wasn't debatable, wasn't an option. I _had_ to see you."

Mae faced Amber. "Why did you tell him about Trent? I didn't want him to know his name."

Amber said she didn't, and promised that she didn't.

Mae resumed her scowl at Tag. "I read your message. You mentioned Trent. How'd you find out, if not from Amber?"

The Honda turned onto a busier street and headed west to nowhere-in-particular.

Tag took a deep breath, reached into his well of courage. "How'd I know his name is Trent Blackwood? Probably the same way that I know his dad died in an oil-rig accident when Trent was two-years-old. The same way I know his mom is a pill-popping alcoholic. That your uncle's name is Matthew and is a doctor and you haven't been on speaking terms since he called Trent a piece of shit. The same way I know what happened to you when you were ten. Reunited with Rebecca and David, thank God. The same way that I know that your parents—and God I pray I'm wrong about this—were murdered by the SacTown Slayer."

Mae was slack-jawed, wide-eyed, a perfect tableaux of utter befuddlement mingled with heart-wrenching despair. Her blue irises fringed with amber coronas blazed wildly like suns, as if their brightness was fueled by the depth of her emotion.

"How?" she breathed. "Impossible. How do you know this? Who are you? Really, who are you?" Before Tag could answer, an idea manifested within her and it didn't sit well whatsoever. "You're the police. A detective."

"No, I'm a bartender. I'm Tag Baylor."

"God," she mumbled, "you even have the same initials as him." She fixed suspiciously at him. "If you aren't the police, then how do you know what you know? Maybe you're friends with Trent and are testing me."

"Not friends. Enemies. And how do I know what I know?" He shrugged. " We've met before? No clue."

She judged his candor. If he was a liar, he was a damned good one. "No, I don't think we've met before. And if we did I certainly never told you my most personal history. You've researched me. Had to."

Amber drove along, staying out of the conversation.

"I swear I didn't. Mae, everything I know of you is from what I've written in my two novels. It's all fiction, or at least I thought it was—except the SacTown Slayer, I suppose. The SacTown Slayer must've been retrieved from memory, just as you obviously were. Somehow fiction became non-fiction. Can't you understand why I cannot just forget that our paths have crossed sometime in the past?"

Another long stare from Mae. "What do you know about the people who kidnapped me?"

Amber looked over at Mae with pitiful eyes and all but whispered, "You were kidnapped?"

"They snatched you up at the mall on Christmas eve," Tag said, " when you were three-years-old. They beat you. Often. You called it Red Trouble. They—"

"Impossible!" Her eyes welled up. Rain on a cloudless day. "Nobody knows about that! Nobody!" Another idea occurred to her. "Unless... do you know Breuer?"

"Yeah. I even know about Brewer."

"He told you this? When? I thought he wasn't real."

"Huh? _Told_ me? Brewer?"

They stared stupidly at one another. "You just said... you said you knew Breuer."

"Yeah, he got hit by a car and died."

"Oh, you mean my dog. How'd you know that? You know things you shouldn't be knowing, Tag." She faced forward and shuddered.

"I know I do. And what do you mean by Brewer telling me? I don't understand."

"Different Breuer. Never mind," she said thinly.

"An imaginary friend?"

"What the hell do you know about imaginary friends, _Tag?"_

"Don't be mad, I just know that you've had them. Of course you would: you were the victim of severe child abuse—any kid would've done the same to escape that fucked up reality."

Amber gazed over at Mae, crying as hopelessly as Mae. She wondered how anyone could be so unfortunate to have been abused by so many people in her young life. She wanted to pull over and embrace Mae.

"So you don't know about Breuer?" Mae asked Tag.

"Just the dog. Is he the imaginary friend you had when your parents began giving you lithium?"

She was becoming less and less surprised by his impossible knowledge. "Yeah. He wasn't real. I... have some issues."

"Mae, after what you went through, it's completely understandable. I hope you don't think we'd judge you for having imaginary friends. It's a miracle that you're as normal as you are. You went through hell, and if I may be blunt, you're still there."

"Yeah, well..." She wiped either eye with her wrist. "What's happening to me?" she said inwardly. "Sometimes I wish it would just end, be over."

Tag didn't think she was talking about her relationship with Trent. She had meant her life.

"But I'm not brave enough to do it."

Amber put her hand on Mae's. "We care about you. Very much. Something needs to change, sweetie. It has to happen or one day Trent will take it too far and, well, he'll take it too far and it won't just be absences from work."

"Trent killed your parents, didn't he?" Tag asked.

She gasped and glared back at Tag. "Fuck you!" She faced Amber, "Take me home and don't _ever_ bring this asshole near me again." Amber nodded, more than intimidated by Mae's tone, and pulled into a gas station to turn around.

"Mae—" Tag began.

"Nyet! Shut it! I don't want to hear another word from your lying mouth!"

"I—"

"Shut your mouth!"

"I take it back. He didn't do that."

"That's right! Where do you get off accusing him of that? He's not perfect but he's no murderer! And everybody knows it was the SacTown piece of shit who killed them! Dickhead!"

"Honey," Amber said cautiously, "calm down, please. We care about you, that's all. Tag was mistaken, okay? He has your best interest at heart, just like I do."

Mae closed her eyes, displacing tears, leaned her head against the side window and said, "Just take me home, please. I want to be home." At least the temper had gone.

"Okay. Home it is." She pulled onto the street homeward.

"The fiddleback spider," Tag said, "you may have only had it for a couple months, but you first had the idea when you were watching Pirates of the Caribbean. You thought Trent's kiss was venomous, but in a good way. Like a Brown Recluse spider, but more like a Pink Recluse. A pink fiddleback spider."

Mae sobbed. "What are you?" she whispered.

"You never told anyone that, did you." Not a question. "I don't know what her name was because I never wrote it, but his name was Luke. And you called her a disturbed bitch. A disturbed bitch who's going to hell, and said she couldn't please her husband, that's why he pretends to work late and gets prostitutes."

"Who told me to say that?" Mae asked, her voice cracking.

"What was that?" Tag leaned forward to better hear.

"Who told me to say that?"

"What do you mean who told you to say that? Nobody did. You were in the back of the station wagon."

She shook her head. "I wasn't alone back there."

"You weren't? Then who?"

"How do you know so damned much but not know about Breuer?"

"The dog?"

" _No, not the fucking dog!"_

"Maybe I'm clairvoyant. I don't know how else to explain it. Can you at least acknowledge that I know what I'm talking about? That this is very real and not some stupid... whatever it is?"

She nodded, met eyes with Tag. Her eyes were red. A deep sunset, amber coronas a dull glow. "Must be real. There's no other way to explain it. Clairvoyance." She covered her mouth at the next thought. "Did Trent... did he kill? Please tell me he didn't..."

Tag didn't wish to get reamed yet again. A yes answer would bring the ugliness back in a big way. "I don't know. That's all in the past now, anyway. It doesn't affect the price of tea in Tennessee, as you would say. What matters is what's happening now. What matters is why you didn't open the door right away when we knocked; why you put a sweater on before opening the door, maybe some makeup. And I'd guess if you had shorts on you would've put pants on before opening the door. What matters is that one day Trent is going to elbow you in the lower back and rupture a kidney or appendix and not take you to the hospital. And you'll die, Mae. Sure as shit, you will die by him someday. That's what matters. That's all that matters."

* * *

Amber parked in the driveway. Tag remained in the Honda as the girls went inside the house to take care of business. He frequently glanced out the back window expecting to discover Hell's Fucking Fury coming home early from work after being alerted by god-knows-what. A nanny cam? iPhone app? Wayward spouses, there's an app for that! And Trent would be fit to murder. But it didn't happen. Trent was getting inside some paying customer's head, probably convincing him or her to take the easy way out and kill themselves without openly suggesting it.

The front door opened. Amber came out crestfallen, alone. She was crying. She got inside the Honda and wasted no time getting a move on. Tag was asking what happened; Amber cut him off and said never mind. They drove away.

"But I thought she agreed to come with us?"

"Just forget it. When she finally leaves him, it will be in a body bag."

"But she said she would come. What changed her mind?"

"Fear, I guess. She packed a suitcase, then unpacked it and told me to leave."

"Damnit."

### Chapter 36

The Saucy Minx was bustling, patrons shoulder-to-shoulder. Voices were loud out of necessity. The music could be heard half a block away and drinks were going out without pause. Amber shared the role of cocktail waitress with Susan (a veteran of the Minx) and had worked up a sweat before the first dollar had exhausted its selections from the juke. The regulars were mostly sitting on stools at the bar. Some tried engaging Tag in menial conversation that he could in no way carry on with the amount of drinks he was blending, shaking, and pouring. Mae monopolized his mind, anyway. It was a rare occasion that he was getting drink orders wrong.

Being Thursday, he knew the crowd would thin considerably by midnight—most students had classes Friday morning. Also was the fact that the Oasis bar down the street served fifty-cent kamikaze's from midnight till two on Thursdays only. The Minx drew them in for ninety-nine-cent pints, the Oasis stole them away the second the calendar day rolled over.

The tip bucket under the bar was full by twelve, a rarity in this economy. Tag attributed that to Amber's employment. She took Tag's advice on dressing slutty and had half the men in the bar staring at her pert little ass in a short skirt as she passed by them. She didn't notice. She was too busy to notice. She had no idea if she was doing well with tips or not, having nothing to compare her success with. Tag was looking forward to telling her that the hundred bucks he estimated would be easily surpassed. When Susan stopped by the bar to stuff her wads of one-dollar-bills in the bucket, she said, "Damn. You see this, Tag?" He had seen this, and asked her if she thought higher of Amber now. "Oh yeah. Next time you're thinking of calling Allie for help, don't."

It wasn't until half past midnight that the bar dwindled down to just a dozen or so people, the usual suspects. The volume on the juke was turned down to ear-friendly. Amber took a seat at a barstool and rested her head on the bar.

"Tiring, ain't it?" Tag said as he went through the bucket money.

"My God," she mumbled, face pressed against the bar. "I've never worked this hard in my life. If I worked here, I'd be able to eat cheesecake everyday and still be in shape."

"What do you think? I could call you in from time to time if you want."

"Pass. I appreciate it, but I'm not cut out for this. I'm so exhausted."

"It gets easier. Susan's been doing this for six years and doesn't break a sweat. But I know what you mean, it takes a certain type to put up with ass-grabbing and flirting all night long."

"That was the only part I liked," she said.

Tag laughed. She lifted her weary head, rested it cheek in hand. She felt liquid seeping through her sleeve at the elbow and grimaced. She watched Tag stacking singles. "Is all that from tonight?" He nodded. "Did we do all right?"

"Sold a lot of drinks tonight, yes. Tips were good."

Susan sidled Amber and said, "You did great, Amber. I'm impressed."

"Thank you." She examined Susan's outfit: black slacks and a white long-sleeved shirt, buttoned to just above the gore of her bra. To Tag: "How come she dresses nicely when you told me to dress like a whore?"

Susan laughed.

"I didn't tell you to dress like a whore. I said you'd do better on tips if you dressed slutty."

"He's right," Susan said. "And there's the proof. There's got to be three hundred bucks in there."

"Closer to four hundred," Tag said.

"Is it split three ways or do you get the lion's share of it since you're the bartender?"

"Split evenly."

"Cool," Amber said. "So that's like a hundred or a hundred-thirty each maybe? I was going to be happy to make eighty tonight, tax-free money."

"Plus your hourly, honey," Susan reminded.

"Oh yeah! Man, maybe I will work some more here."

A man took a seat at the stool two down from Amber and asked for a Bloody Buddy. Coming right up. Amber lazily looked at the man and said, "Bloody Buddy? Is that like a Bloody Mary?"

"It's a Budweiser with tomato juice in it," he replied.

Her nose wrinkled at the bridge. "Eww."

He smiled at her. "Not your cup of tea? What do you like?"

"Guinness. Tequila. Daiquiris."

The man said to Tag, "Get me two shots of Patron and a Guinness. Thanks."

"Sure thing." He produced two shot glasses and another pint glass.

"For me?" Amber asked the man confusedly.

"You look like you could use a drink more than me."

"But I'm working here."

Susan walked away saying, "All the more reason to have a few."

Tag put a shot and pint glass in front of Amber. Then a shot and Bloody Buddy before the stranger and requested payment. "Don't think I've seen you before, bud. I'm Tag." He offered his hand and the man shook it.

"Reed. Nice to meet you. I'm not much of a drinker but it's been a long day."

"Thank you for the drinks. I'm Amber."

He moved to the seat beside her, took her offered hand and kissed the top of it. "My pleasure, Amber."

"A real Casanova," she said. She saw the band on his ring finger. "Do you greet women like that when your ball and chain is with you?"

"Oh, probably not." He chuckled. His attention was then drawn to the contents of his blazer pocket; he withdrew a cellphone and sighed. "Excuse me. I'll be right back." He walked out of the bar.

"What do you think," Tag said to Amber, "his wife texted him to pack his shit and get out?"

"No. Stock alert, he lost a few grand. Probably calling to fire his broker."

"That's good," he said impressively. "He looks the type. But the market's been closed for many hours."

She sipped her Guinness. "Are you going to pretend to be locked-out again tonight and need a place a crash?"

"Pretend? How'd you know that it was all a ploy to get into bed with you?"

"Women's intuition." She looked shyly away and added, "I'll let you pretend again tonight, if you want."

"You're a sweetheart, you know that? I can't get in touch with Kade. He's not returning my calls or texts. I think he's shacked up with a girl he met at the Oasis a few days ago. That being said, I don't have the key to the new lock. If he doesn't get back to me by tomorrow morning, I'll get a locksmith to open the door for me."

"My brain is tired. Are you saying that you want to come home with me?"

"Unless Kade calls me in the next hour or so, yes. But only if you don't mind."

"I said I'd let you pretend again tonight, didn't I? Does a girl need to just come out and say it?"

"No. I got'cha. I've been secretly hoping Kade wouldn't get back to me. The thought of being with you tonight has been a comforting one. A much needed one."

"Do I need to wear the ski jacket again?"

He grinned. "Yes, and nothing else."

"I could put ski boots and skis on, and nothing else."

"Might be hard to maneuver in bed."

"Who said anything about bed? Ever watch the Winter Olympics?—that big ass ramp that skiers jump off? They lean forward into the wind to cut down wind resistance. That's what I have pictured in my mind."

"And what about me? Am I a ski pole?"

"You're the camera man; close up shot behind me."

"What event is that? Long-humping?"

Reed returned from outside and sat down. He seemed relieved. He must have sold at just the right time. He apologized for the disturbance, said that his job is twenty-four-seven, and raised his shot of tequila to toast with Amber. They tossed them back and sipped their beers.

"Are you a stock broker?" Amber asked.

It amused Reed. "No, why do you think that?"

"I don't know. You just have that look."

"I'm a sergeant detective, Sacramento Homicide. Long day, needed to unwind."

Tag and Amber met eyes. He asked what brings him to Chico.

"Long story. I guess I could sum it up best by saying a hunch."

"Murder case in Chico?"

"Just checking some leads. Have nothing to go on, really. Just that Spark that Pays." It was supposed to mean something to them.

"Spark that Pays?" Tag repeated.

"Oh, forgive me, I'm used to talking with the guys. They all call it the Spark that Pays. Hunches."

"Police intuition," Tag surmised.

"Maybe a little, but more than that it's... well, it's the Spark that Pays. It's hard to describe."

"Tell us," Amber coaxed. "You got me wondering."

Reed shifted on his stool, shrugged his tight jacketed-shoulders and said okay. "Two years ago I was a vice cop. Worked the beat. A murder case was being investigated by the Homicide Department and they had little to go on. All they had was a rag that they'd taken from the victim's gagged mouth. There was no DNA other than the victim's. I knew I had some sort of... well, gift I guess you could call it. Not that it works or worked all the time, or even most of the time. But sometimes it does work. And it did two years ago. I asked to handle the rag. It was evidence and they weren't keen on the idea of me touching it, but I persuaded Captain Morales to give me a try. They were desperate to solve this case, being that it was the nephew of a City Selectman who was murdered.

"So I took the rag in my hands and had what I can only describe as that sensation when you wake up from a lucid dream, before you fully know you're awake; you know, you're thinking about the dream, trying to decide if it happened or not. I could see the guy stuffing the rag in the victim's mouth. I could make his description out enough to get a sketch artist to put together a pretty accurate sketch. Lieutenant Harbaugh—back then Sergeant Harbaugh—thought it looked like a guy he had once questioned for an unrelated homicide. Well, long story short, it ended up being the same guy. He was questioned regarding stated homicide. His story didn't jibe. One thing led to another, he was arrested and confessed to the murder. The Spark that Pays. It wasn't long after that I joined Homicide and have used that Spark on several occasions."

"That's incredible," Tag said.

"Do you get visions from just anything?" Amber inquired. "Like a brush or car keys or something?"

"Eh, sometimes."

"That's so cool." She swiveled on her stool to better face Reed. She saw his eyes go down to her lap and widen. She closed her legs, reflecting back to when she got dressed, and was relieved to remember putting panties on. It was a short skirt. "So what did you touch that brought you here? What did you see?"

"I'm afraid I can't discuss an open case."

"Aww. Booo! You're no fun."

Reed chuckled. "Yeah, I'm no fun. Agreed. I'll tell you what. I'll try my Spark that Pays on something of yours, see if I can come up with any images. You have something personal that you've used many times? Keys, brush, credit card?"

"Hell yes I do." She asked Tag to hand her the purse from behind the counter. He did. She opened it and produced her keys.

"Can't guarantee it'll work," he said and palmed the keys. He appeared to weigh them in his hand, bobbed up and down. Then cupped them in both hands and closed his eyes. Tag and Amber gave each other an amused grin. "Sorry. Not getting a vibe. Do you have something more personal? Used gum, comb, ATM card?"

"Sure." She produced a credit card and handed it over. He did the same thing, closed his eyes and meditated over the contents of his joined hands, credit card between them. He took a moment before sighing and issuing an apology. "Doesn't always work with everyone. Some people emit a vibe that transfers to their possessions. That's my take on it, anyways. Who knows, really."

"Give him something," Amber said to Tag. "I want to see the Spark that Pays."

Reed and Tag humored. Tag withdrew his wallet and handed him a Wells Fargo debit card.

"You guys probably think I'm psycho. That's what Captain Morales thought, too, until they had that piece of shit in handcuffs. I'll give it one last try."

He glanced at the ATM card, sandwiched it between his palms and closed his eyes.

### Chapter 37

As the locksmith was changing the lock on Kade and Tag's apartment door, Kade decided he was a little horny. The question was, was it an internet porn kind of horniness or a phone call to Bonnie kind. After nailing Bonnie she'd probably want to stick around for a while and that wasn't such a bad thing, especially since she could cook. Maybe she would even spend the night, then he could have morning sex. Is there anything better than morning sex?—Kade didn't think so. He dialed her number.

"Hi, Kade. Can't get enough of me, huh?"

"Nope. Are you doing anything tonight?"

"I'm studying for a test. It's a big one."

The locksmith zipped up his bag and said he was done. Kade told Bonnie to hold one sec and asked the man if he could get two keys for the lock—one for his roommate.

"Yeah, there are two keys. Here you go. Here's the paperwork. Are you paying by check?"

"Yeah, one second."

Bonnie waited patiently for a couple minutes before Kade returned.

"Sorry, Bonnie. Got a new lock on the door."

"New lock? Did someone break in or something?"

"Nah, just thought it was time to get an upgrade." He wasn't about to tell her that some psychopath broke in the last night and trashed the place with an axe. If he told her that it would surely be a night for internet porn. "So anyway, how about coming over tonight?"

"Sure. But I really should study for this test. I can't spend the night, okay?"

"That's fine. Just stay for an hour or two."

"Gee, I wonder what you have in mind for that hour or two."

"I figured we could study some human anatomy, biology."

She giggled. "Sounds good." She checked the wall clock: 7:30. "I'll be there before eight."

* * *

As Bonnie lay naked in his bed, body glistening with sweat, Kade decided to draw a tattoo on her breast with a Sharpie marker. She giggled, said it tickled. He made a sunflower, with the nipple being the center. He was becoming strangely aroused.

"I hate to interrupt you during your play time," she said, "but I really should be getting home to study."

Kade was awed that he actually wanted her to stay. It might have been a first. She was good looking, so maybe that's why. But she wasn't the first good looking girl he'd been with, there had been one or two others. He supposed he liked her personality, hoped he wasn't becoming 'mature'. He considered asking her to forget about the test and stay over, but would feel guilty about her failing a test because of him.

"Would you mind if I took a shower before leaving?" she asked.

"Go right ahead. Would you mind if I come over to your place? Just for a while, or overnight; whatever you want."

"Kade, I need to study." She got out of bed. He stared at her alluring naked body.

"I won't bother you, I swear. I'll finish my tattoo on you, or give you a backrub or something; go down on you while you read. Maybe you could take a real quick break sometime and we could squeeze in a little sexy-time, but we don't have to."

She stared into his eyes for a moment before agreeing to it.

As she showered, Kade put the spare door key under the welcome mat and called Tag. He didn't answer, big surprise. The guy never answers at work. He left a voicemail: "Sup, dude? I changed the lock on the door, just in case I did lock the door the other night and the bitch had a key. Better safe than sorry, right? I left your key under the welcome mat. I'm staying over at that chicks house from the other day. I forget her name, the one who can cook. Later, Tater."

He decided to leave a note on the door, too, just in case Tag didn't get the voicemail. After taping it to the door he checked on Bonnie in the shower. The sight of her naked wet body put him in the mood for round two. He slid his boxers off and got in the shower with her.

"Excuse me, can I help you?"

"I'm a dirty boy, I need cleaning." He touched her.

"Well that's true, you are a dirty boy, but I need to be getting back home. This test really is important. I'm sorry, Kade. Are you upset?"

His erection was losing steam. "Nah, it's all right. So you want me to stay home then?"

"No, you can come over. Just know that I'll be spending at least two hours studying. Maybe we can sex it up afterward. If you're still in the mood, that is."

"I was born in the mood. Deal."

She got out of the shower and toweled off as Kade washed himself.

"I'm going to head home now. You remember where I live, right?"

"Yep. I'll be there in twenty minutes or so. Lock the door behind you, please."

After getting dressed Bonnie grabbed her purse and left, making sure the door was locked behind her.

Kade whistled a tune as he shampooed his hair. He couldn't believe he was looking forward to going to Bonnie's place. He told himself it was because he'd get laid, nothing more, nothing less.

The bathroom light turned off.

"Woah, woah," Kade said, "I can't see." He considered it for a brief moment, smiled. "Couldn't wait till we got back to your place after all, huh?"

"Mhmm."

"You should turn the lights back on, though. I like to watch." He decided to be a little honest here, a little endearing. "But only because you're so hot. I'm usually a lights-off kind of guy. Nobody wants to see himself screwing a fat ugly chick." He heard the bathroom door close. The lights weren't coming back on. "Okay, have it your way."

The shower curtain slid open invisibly; he heard the scroop of metal rings against the bar. Kade couldn't see her, but he imagined her smiling devilishly and being butt-naked. The thought gave him an instant erection. "Come on in, babe. Let me wash your front. With my tongue."

He felt a hand graze his manhood, then his balls. At once the grip tightened like a fucking vice, stealing his breath. His legs went rubbery before giving out fully: he hit the bottom of the tub, the iron grip never releasing his testicles. He wanted to beg for mercy but couldn't breathe, let alone speak.

Finally his battered scrotum was released. He gasped for breath. A second later he was struck blindly in the head. Lights out.

* * *

Kade woke with blinding hot pain in his groin. He was on the living room couch, naked. He startled at the presence of a man seated in a recliner, a black ski mask over his head, gun in hand.

"Who the fuck are you?" But he knew who he was. Not by name, but there was no doubt in his mind that this was the asshole who killed the downstairs dog and fucked up the apartment the other night.

"I am one of two possible people, and it's your decision which one I'll be. I'm either the man who is going to execute you, or the man who lets you live. How badly do you want me to be the latter?"

Kade winced from the pain in his testicles. He was nauseated, thought he might puke. "You're the dude who broke in the other day, aren't you?"

"The next time you ask a question instead of answering mine, I'm going to be the person who executes you."

Kade nodded, sat up hissing.

"Good. Tell me, what do you know about Mae Clark?"

Kade suddenly had a dark idea. Coupled with the excruciating pain in his testicles it was enough to evoke vomiting. He puked beer on the cushion beside him. He wiped his mouth and said, "What did you do with Bonnie? Did you hurt her? Is she here?"

With that the man removed his ski mask. "You shouldn't have asked me a question, I thought we had an understanding. Now tell me what you know about Mae Clark."

"Nothing. I swear to God. Tag wrote a couple novels about her, that's all I know. Oh, and she works at Diamond Smiles."

Kade was asked a series of questions, none of which he could answer. The man never left the recliner, his gun resting on his knee. Kade had another dark idea. Why did the dude take off his ski mask? He suspected he knew why. A ski mask was worn to hide his identity, and after Kade broke a rule by asking a question, there was no longer a need to conceal his identity. The dead can't describe appearances to police sketch artists.

### Chapter 38

Mae was watching The Bachelor on the sixty-inch plasma, a recording from the DVR—why suffer needlessly through the commercials? The living room still had an aroma of lemon Pledge. Pancho slept on her lap. Her stomach cramped when she heard the garage door open. Trent was home. She pet Pancho in nervous anticipation. Hopefully Trent had a good day. That it was past midnight wasn't surprising to Mae: he enjoyed his time out of the house. She just hoped he hadn't been out drinking. That was when his temper was most volatile. That was when his punishments were executed most thoughtfully and thoroughly.

_He couldn't be upset this evening,_ she consoled herself. She had cleaned the house from top to bottom, had a lasagna in the oven—still warm, and had been so for five hours. Unless... unless he had surveillance set up that she was unaware of. Then he'd know two people came by unannounced. That was paranoia talking. And even though she had come to depend on her paranoia, she was wrong more times than not in assuming the worst.

The laundry-room door from the garage thudded closed. "I'm home! Miss me?" He sounded to be in a good mood.

Her nerves unwound. "You bet! I hope you're hungry! I made your favorite dish, it's still hot in the oven!"

Trent entered the living room loosening his neck-tie. "I thought I smelled lasagna. Smells amazing." He looked around the living room. "Cleaned up, I see."

"Yep. How was your day, sweetheart?"

"Murder. Be glad I don't make you get a job. People fucking suck."

"I have a job."

"I meant a real job. One that matters."

"May I serve you up a plate? Get you a beer?"

"That would be great. You're eager to please today, aren't you?" It was suspicion.

"Always. I love making you happy." He stared at her without expression. It was a look she hated. He was jumping to conclusions silently. She needed to steer him away from cynical rumination. "Guess who called today?"

"Who?"

"Your mom. I said you were still working. She initiated a conversation with me. I can't remember the last time that happened. She put her house on the market, she said. She wants to move to Scottsdale. She met a guy on e-Harmony." Mae gave him a disarming grin. It didn't disarm him.

"I don't like you talking to her. She's fucking nuttier than a ball sack. Her brain is cooked from years of drugs and scotch."

"I'm sorry. I won't talk to her anymore. She wanted you to call her. I guess it's too late now. Tomorrow."

Trent removed his coat and draped it over the back of the recliner. He then unbuckled his belt. Black leather, heavy silver buckle. "I'm going to jump in the shower. Have a plate ready for when I'm out." He yanked the belt out from around his waist; it whipped around like an eel. He watched her reaction amusedly. Her eyes were laden with fear. Dread. Funny how some things never change, he thought. It must have been a decade since she'd taken a whipping from a belt but her eyes said it was only last week. But it wasn't last week. Not with the belt it wasn't.

"Okay." She swallowed. "I will."

"Damn right you will. The place looks good, babe."

Trent ascended the stairs. Mae removed Pancho (he complained) and paused The Bachelor. In the kitchen she prepared a plate of lasagna. It was still warm but she figured she'd pop it in the microwave for a minute so it would be perfect for Trent. She wondered if he'd want her to eat with him. She had snacked on some Ritz crackers while watching her show but was still hungry. She got another plate out and cut a small piece for herself.

Trent jaunted down the stairs five minutes later wearing red Adidas sport pants and a plain white vee-neck tee. The table was set. Two plates with lasagna and salad with ranch dressing. Before Trent's seat was the plate with larger portions of both. Mae handed him a glass of beer that she had just poured and leaned in to kiss him—Trent offered his cheek to kiss. It was telling. Lip kisses meant good, cheek kisses meant bad: something was bothering him.

He placed his glass of beer beside her spot at the side-table, which was a little odd, and took his plate from the table and headed to the microwave.

"I heated it already," she said. "It should be perfect."

"Uh-huh," he said impassively, and put the plate in the microwave anyway. He pressed a few numbers and started the cycle, faced Mae. "So what did you do today?"

"Cleaned. Made lasagna." She hated how her voice sounded. It broadcast guilty.

He stared his gray judging eyes at her without word.

"Sweetheart, I'm sorry I spoke with your mom. I promise I won't ever again. Forgive me?"

"I already forgot about it. Did you clean the bedroom today?"

She contemplated the reason for the question. Seemed benign enough. "Yes. I vacuumed. Dusted."

"What else?"

This was going horribly wrong. He knows something. But what? "I uh... that's it, I think."

"You think? You'd better think harder."

"Your salad is in the microwave, Trent. It's going to be bad. And your lasagna will be too hot to eat."

"Uh-huh, how about you just worry about my question? How about that?"

She nodded. "I vacuumed and dusted. That's all." She gazed down heavily at her lasagna, the result of an hour and a half's worth of hard work, all from scratch, and knew she wouldn't be enjoying one bite of it.

"Okay," he said conclusively, upbeat. That was more unsettling than anything. He watched the microwave, the plate turning and turning, motor humming. Trent pressed the Add Thirty Seconds button twice.

"I love you, Trent." Softer this time she said, "I love you with all my heart."

He said nothing, watched the plate spin. The microwave beeped. Trent used a pot holder to handle the hot plate. He placed it beside Mae's plate and repositioned his chair beside hers on the long side of the table. She tried to remember if he'd done this before and couldn't recall. He sat down, slid his napkin with fork and knife over. His beer was now in its proper respective spot. He took a sip, set it down.

"You know how much I hate the idea of being married," he began, "but there are some things that I wish I'd get to experience. Like the wedding reception. You know how the groom and bride exchange handfuls of cake?—feed each other?"

Staring defeatedly at her lasagna, she nodded.

"It's not fair to you that you won't ever get to experience that. Don't you think?"

"I don't mind," she said so thinly that it was squeaked.

"Oh I think you do. I'll tell you what, let's pretend this lasagna is our wedding cake. How fun would that be? We'll feed each other lasagna! We'll be civilized about it, use forks of course. What do you say?"

She fixed on a little piece of Italian sausage sticking out of her slice of lasagna. She wondered what the pig had suffered through so that this little piece of sausage could be a part of her made dinner. Did she (the pig) suffer? Or did she die quickly and painlessly? Did it matter? She was dead just the same. Maybe that was a good thing. What were that pig's living conditions before the day that someone with a deadline and a heavy order to fill decided that particular pig's number was up? Probably filthy, even by a pig's standards. Probably inhumane and brutal. Maybe as she was pushed and prodded along to the slaughterhouse she cooperated, hoping it would be the end of the line for her dismal self. Maybe the essence of her life was taken well before the day it was taken physically. Could it be said that her death was an act of mercy? The sweet release of pain and sorrow? The Great Unknown could be far less daunting than the known.

She asked herself the question again: _Could it be that killing the pig was an act of mercy?_

Mae nodded at Trent.

"Excellent. Usually the best man is present to give a speech first, but since Tag isn't here, we'll have to go straight to the exchanging of cake."

Tears formed in her eyes.

He quartered off a large piece of lasagna with his fork. "Me first. Give me a bite, babe."

At least it was no longer a mystery why he was behaving this way. That he knew the name Tag was all she needed to know. It was going to be a hard night. Extremely hard.

Her trembling hand picked up the fork and cut a little bite. She faced him. His icy gray eyes bored into hers as invasively as a knife into flesh. She guided her fork into his mouth with loving care, feeding him, praying that her subservience and devotion would go appreciated, maybe some mercy be granted. He chewed and swallowed.

"You never did learn to cook worth a shit. Smells good, though." He raised his fork with a heaping bite of melted cheese and noodles, steam wafting from it like dry ice under a blistering hot July sun. "Open wide," he crooned, as if she were a toddler in a high chair. She closed her eyes, displacing pools of tears, and opened her mouth. He barely managed the sizable piece in her mouth, lifted up and scraped the food off the fork with her upper teeth. She shuddered, closed her mouth. Tears streamed in rivers from her closed eyes.

"Chew it," he said. "Go on. Swallow so I can have my turn. It may be shit, but I'm still hungry."

Eyes squinting tighter, face as red as a roma tomato, she chewed. Swallowed. Clear snot puddled at the catch of either nostril before spilling over. She met eyes with Trent's before gazing down in horror at the large piece of lasagna remaining on his plate. The salad was wilted, ranch now a moat of milk around the slice of torture.

"I hope you're hungry. Lots of food left. Let's move it along before it gets too cold to eat. Hurry up."

She cut another piece and fed him with all the tenderness her soul could offer. As he chewed, he cut an even bigger piece, a good two inch by two inch square of Italian hell. Her eyes widened and met his, pleaded with him without uttering a word.

"What's the matter?" he asked. "Not hungry? Did you and Tag already eat dinner? Open your fucking whore mouth."

She did. He couldn't fit the bite in her mouth so he helped it in with his hand. It was too hot to the touch, so he used a napkin to shove it in.

She convulsed violently, made a horrific face against her greatest effort to appear calm, separated her lips to allow precious cool air inside the oven that was her mouth. Trent slammed her jaw up, closing her mouth with a clack of her teeth. He held it until she swallowed. She reached for her glass of milk; Trent got to it first and snatched it up, drank its contents in one try, slammed it on the table and burped.

"May I please pour another glass of milk?" She was careful not to sound impertinent.

"No."

"May I have a sip of your Bloody Buddy? Please?"

"So I was wondering, Mae, why is your suitcase facing the wrong way in the closet? I distinctly remember the handle facing inward, and now it's outward. How do you figure that came to be?"

"I don't know," she said, snot running unapologetically down her upper lip, cheeks a wet mess.

"How do you think I know about Tag? You never mentioned him. When I said his name you didn't say anything. Seems to me that if you didn't know who I was referring to you would have been puzzled, asked me to elaborate."

"You read my messages," she guessed. She reached for her napkin, looked over at Trent for permission. He nodded. She wiped her nose and cheeks.

"You're damned right I did. I know a hell of a lot more than you think. So how about being honest with me? Or maybe we'll be having the whole fucking casserole tonight."

She nodded.

He got up and took his plate with him, put it in the microwave and pressed a few buttons, began the cycle. "I figure a few more minutes on high should burn the shit-taste out of your shitty food." He returned to his seat at the table as the microwave hummed. "The first answer you give me that I don't feel is a hundred-percent honest, you'll get the rest of that piece of lava in one bite. Got me?" She said yes. "Good. Now tell me, what the fuck does that nosy asshole Tag want with you? Why was he here today with that equally nosy bitch coworker of yours?" Before she could answer, Tag reminded her that the lasagna would be so hot that it would cook the layers of skin inside her mouth, throat, esophagus, stomach, and parts beyond; hell, with a little luck maybe her shit would be on fire. Then he'd nuke the rest of the casserole and watch her eat every last mother fucking bite.

"They're afraid you're going to hurt me," she said.

"They're fucking stupid but they got that much right. What else?"

"They think it won't just be sick days I'll be taking if I stay with you."

"They're two for two. What else?"

"Tag insists he knows me. He knows about my past and I don't know how."

Trent scrutinized her body language as she said it, her demeanor, her crying eyes. It was an honest answer. Of courser it was. He always knew how to get truths out of her when he needed them most. "How might that be possible? That he knows your past."

She shrugged, blotted her eyes with the sodden napkin. "Could I please pour some more milk?"

"You swear on your life that you've never met this Tag Baylor before?"

"I swear. He's psychic or clairvoyant or something. Has to be."

"Well that sucks for both of us if he is, because then he knows what I'm going to do to you. What did he and Amber want? To take you away?"

"Yes."

"And that's why your suitcase has been moved. You packed your shit and had a change of heart at the last minute. Is that right?"

She nodded.

"Good. You just earned a taste of my Bloody Buddy. Go ahead." Mae took two greedy gulps before he stole the glass away from her. "All better?"

It wasn't but she said that it was—that's the answer he was wanting. "I'm sorry, Trent. I don't know what I was thinking."

"The important thing is you came to your senses. If you'd have left I would have found you. You know what would've happened then?"

She shook her head.

"The good news would be that Tag and Amber would be dead. Fucking dead. A pile of meat parts that their own mothers couldn't identify at the morgue. I guess you could say the good news would be that you'd be dead as well. The bad news is how it would go down. Sit tight." He left the kitchen. Mae dashed to the fridge to refill her glass with milk, chugged a half-glass and returned to the table, placed it in exactly the same spot as before.

Tag returned to the kitchen with both hands behind his back. The first place his eyes drifted to was the empty filmy glass of milk, then her lips, then her bitch-ass lying eyes. He stood before her. She nervously looked up at him, one hand in her lap, the other on the table, trembling like that fucking Michael J. Fox and the last pope combined.

"If you ever speak to them again—and I mean Amber, too; at work if she says something to you, you ignore that bitch—if you ever speak a word or email a word to either one of them again, you're going to get a present. The three of you will get the same gift. If you tell anyone else a word about this, you'll get both presents. That's right, a two-fer. Pick a hand. Let's see what gift daddy has for his Mae and pals."

She looked at his arms hiding away at the elbow. "Do I have to?"

"Did I say you didn't? Pick one!"

She flinched and said left hand. He was disappointed by her choice. From behind his back came a hatchet. "Hatchet it is. But don't forget that Santa still might bring you a two-fer. Breathe a word and Christmas will come early. Got me?" She nodded.

Trent raised the hatchet overhead and chopped down—veins in his arms bulging like so many plump nightcrawlers—the oak table split where the axe cleaved, glasses and plates jumped. He let go: the handle stood erect.

"That little beauty will be the fastest way you ever lost weight. But if you tell a soul about this, the hatchet won't be what kills you. I guaran-damn-tee it. You know what will? I've been dying to show you this for years, but until now the time wasn't right. Drastic measures call for drastic actions."

From behind his back came his right hand. A silvery gleam arced along twelve inches of steel blade. It was a kitchen knife, though not from Mae's kitchen. A butcher knife, belled at the end like a cutlass.

Her heart skipped a beat, color drained from her face. Her lidless eyes were hypnotized by the blade; by the very knife had once been in the Clark's kitchen, probably even used by Mae on occasion to chop vegetables. Trent expected this reaction. She had to have at least flirted with the idea after her parents had their throats cut. He turned the knife to throw the reflected gleam back at her. If ever there was a Kodak moment, he thought, this was it. "Something tells me you know the story behind this."

She said nothing. Eyes as round as hell is hot were keenly on the knife. He waved the knife side to side—her eyes followed it. "Do you? You know what this is, right?"

"You did," she mouthed. "You _did,"_ she whispered. "You killed them. You're... you're the..."

"I'm not the SacTown Slayer and you know it. Or do you?" It was an intriguing thought. "He did do me a huge favor, though, killing in your neighborhood."

"Why, Trent?" It was the highest register he ever heard from Mae, perhaps anyone. A voice more apt in a pre-pubescent girl. There weren't any tears, there's a fucking shocker. She couldn't go five minutes without crying and now that she had a reason to, now that she knew he killed her shit-lousy parents, her eyes were dry. "Why did you kill them? How could you do that to—"

"Shut your whore mouth. I did us a favor and you know it. Do as I say and you'll be fine. Disobey me, go running your mouth to Fag or Amber or anyone, and this pretty piece of silvery steel will give you a family reunion. You and that bitch mom of yours can have a good cry together in hell. Got me?"

"Do it."

He must have misheard. "Excuse me?"

"Do it. Do it right now."

"Don't tempt me. And I fucking swear, Mae, if you think you can outsmart me and tell the police that I killed your parents, that you'll be safe because I'll be in jail, you better pull your head out of your worthless ass because it ain't fucking so. There's a little thing called evidence and there is none. Even if you got me arrested, you don't think I'll get bail posted? And there isn't a place on earth you could hide where I couldn't find you. And when I do?" He brandished the knife, nodded at the hatchet cleaved in the kitchen table. "It will be the most painful death conceivable, drawn out in as many hours as possible before your body can no longer handle it and finally gives up." He yanked the hatchet out of the table and walked away from the kitchen saying, "Consider me not beating the fuck out you for drinking milk while I was upstairs an early anniversary gift. Now get upstairs. We're having sex tonight."

"I hate you." Her words were calm and distant.

Trent stopped at the base of the stairs. "What the fuck did you just say?"

"Nothing." Less calm, less distant.

He dropped the knife and hatchet and turned with clenched fists. "I guess you'll be getting fucked in both senses of the word tonight."

### Chapter 39

Reed opened his eyes. "You have the energy, Tag. I can sense things."

"Oh yeah? Cool, what do you see?"

Still clutching the ATM card he closed his eyes. "I see... I see you and... Amber. Driving together? Yes, she's driving and you're in the passenger seat. You're driving on a freeway in a blue car... looks like Oroville."

"That's amazing," Amber said with genuine awe.

"You're driving in a nice neighborhood. Big houses. Now you're parked, at the end of a cul-de-sac." He opened his eyes and looked down at the ATM card, muttered "Tag Baylor."

"That's really something, man," Tag said impressively.

"I'm hearing a name... Mae? Mae Kent?"

"Clark."

Amber giggled. "Clark Kent." Tag smiled at her.

Reed humored, returned the card to its owner. "Clark Kent. Superman. That _is_ funny. You know why?" His mirthful expression blinked away. "Because you'd both need to be superfuckingman to survive what I'm going to do to you. You're fucked. Get near Mae again and I'll hack off your limbs and slit your fucking throats. I know where you both live—stay the fuck away and maybe you'll live. _Maybe_ you'll live. Got it? Say a word of this to anyone and I'll feed you a piece of each other before I kill you."

He produced a door key from his pocket and slammed it against the bar, departed the Saucy Minx unceremoniously. Tag looked down at his apartment key, then up at Amber. She looked how he felt.

* * *

They agreed that going to his apartment that night was out of the question. What or who might be inside was kindling for nightmares. But Trent also knew where Amber lived, somehow, and they didn't doubt that. He was an insanely intelligent guy. An excellent actor, too. Tag would've bet the farm that he was a Sacramento Homicide detective, not someone who Homicide detectives hunt.

They agreed to go to her place—they weren't about to move into a hotel—and headed there after closing shop at the Saucy Minx. They were apprehensive entering her apartment (terrified is a better word) but did so without event. Amber locked the dead-bolt, checked her windows: locked. They took a seat on the couch and mindlessly held hands. Tag remembered saying he might kick Trent's ass. It seemed like years ago. He had grown wiser since then.

"We should call the police," she said for the tenth time since their encounter with Trent.

"Okay. Call the police. Then call for an ambulance. Might as well call the coroner's office, too, give them a heads up. Whether or not he keeps his promise with you and I, you know damn well that Mae will pay for it. In blood. And I really don't think he's bluffing, do you? When I look at that psycho, I don't see a shred of bluff in him. He'll kill or die trying."

"I know," she conceded. "I just... I can't—"

Tag saw her tears and put his arms around her, brought her in. "It's going to be all right, Amber. We'll think of something." He stroked her back. "We'll think of something."

They slept in their clothes. Tag kept the largest knife Amber owned beside him. There was no touching one another, no laughter, hardly a word said. If either had a plan in the making, neither were aware of it.

Sleep was hard earned and not fully reached. They'd wake up with dark swollen eyes. Tomorrow would be a hell of a day.

### Chapter 40

Amber opened the blinds to heavenly brightness. She peeked outside for any ominous signs that Trent had been there. Something dead that was recently alive, perhaps. A dog? Mailman? There was nothing.

Tag took the first shower. Amber ate a few bites of cereal before giving up. Tag came out of the bathroom with wet hair and the same clothes he wore at the bar last night, and to bed. He needed to go to his apartment and unload the bed, which had been in the borrowed truck for two days now. She offered to help carry it. He'd give Kade a try on his cell first.

Kade was still missing in action and he didn't have Bonnie's phone number. If he hadn't had the run-in with Trent last night, he'd only be beginning to worry about Kade. Now he entertained the darkest thoughts imaginable. Red Trouble. Murder. Kade wasn't the type to avoid Tag. He never went a single day without returning a call, let alone two.

After two calls and a text message, he admitted to Amber that he was worried about Kade, that he had presentiments of Trent doing something to him. Trent had, after all, possessed Tag's apartment key. It was nonsensical that he'd do something to Kade, especially when he could've taken his aggression out on Tag and Amber. Amber said that a psychopath's domain wasn't in the sensical, that's why they're psychopaths.

Amber would follow Dallas' truck to Tag's apartment and help carry the bed, then head off to work in Oroville. Would Mae be working today? Not a fucking chance. She was likely fired by now, anyway. Amber couldn't afford to lose her job so she wouldn't be calling in sick a second day in a row.

* * *

Tag unlocked the door with the key that Trent had slammed down on the bar. Until then he hadn't considered that it might be a key to his old door-lock. Kade had said he put the new key under the mat. That the key unlocked the door meant Trent had taken the key from under the mat between Kade's voicemail and Tag's arrival home a few hours later. He held his breath as he opened the door. At first glance the place looked fine. Amber stayed on his heels as he searched the apartment.

"I guess it's fine," Tag said. "Let's bring the bed up so you can get to work."

Five minutes later Amber was speeding off to work in her little blue Honda. Tag was indecisive as to what he should do. He searched Kade's room for phone numbers. His parents, his floozy from the other night, anything. And found nothing. He checked his aspiringwriter-dot-com account on a whim. There was one message from two days ago. MaeClarkisme wrote: _Who told you his name is Trent?_

He decided to do a load of laundry, wash those back-up sheets and blankets for the new bed in the communal laundromat. He incessantly looked over his shoulder, wondered how long this nightmare might last.

Back in his apartment, while browsing through files on Kade's laptop, looking for any contact numbers he might try calling, he got a phone call from Amber. A five alarm call that set the wheels in motion.

### Chapter 41

Amber parked the Honda in her usual spot, to the side and rear of Diamond Smiles. According to the car's digital clock she made it in the nick of time, three minutes to spare. She gathered her purse and bottled water, opened her door as the passenger door flung open, scaring the hell out of her. Amber gasped at Mae's ghastly sight.

"You have to help me," Mae cried desperately. She was harried. Face pink, eyes swollen, mascara and eye-liner running. She had either been painting clumsily with crimson or was bleeding profusely. Her left sleeve was soaked through, but didn't appear to be fresh. A slanted bloody line crossed her tee-shirt between her breasts, and that did look fresh—strangely the shirt itself wasn't cut, as if she put the shirt on after receiving the wound. Her left bare forearm was caked with blood, dried blood, a long thick gash was scabbing over. A gray cat was tucked at her right side.

"Mae? What happened?" She saw Trent's white Dodge Ram on the other side of Jerry's Mitsubishi.

Mae got inside the Honda and closed the door, released Pancho on the floorboard between her feet. "Help me, he's going to kill us," she said in a frenzy.

Amber looked at her, really _looked_ at her: her sight was a punch to the gut, she wept at once. "What happened?" The eye-liner and mascara that ran wasn't makeup at all. She had taken blows. Her right eye was blackened and swollen shut, left cheek-bone bruised deeply, perhaps fractured. Her right ear was purple and resembled a cauliflower.

"Help me, Amber! He's going to kill us!"

The gash from her wrist to elbow was so deep and broad that Amber was in disbelief that she was still alive. Surely it severed her radial artery. If not, it missed it by millimeters. Amber floundered to retrieve the cellphone from her purse. Her vision was blurry, tears dripped off her jaw in rivulets.

"Don't call the police," Mae pleaded. "Please don't."

"I'm calling Tag." Amber dialed his number while debating the best possible recourse in this crisis. "Hang in there, sweetie," she said just before Tag answered. Amber cut him off before he could say hello, spoke in double-time with no breaks: "Mae is beaten and bloody, I think Trent is coming for us, we're in the parking lot of my work, do I call an ambulance? What do I do?"

"How bad is she?"

"Lots of blood. I don't know. Mae, how bad is it? Where are you cut besides your arm and chest?"

"Take me home. Please, Amber. Your home."

"She says to take her to my place. I don't know, it's a lot of blood. What do you think?"

"If you think there's even a remote chance of her not surviving, call nine-one-one. This isn't the time to play cautious with Trent. Make the big decision. What do you say?"

"Please don't call an ambulance," Mae begged. "Your house."

"Come over to my apartment," Amber said to Tag. "I'll be there in twenty minutes if I don't get pulled over for speeding." Amber started the car, threw it in reverse and backed out like a lunatic. "Bring supplies. Get gauze, tape, rubbing alcohol, butterfly bandages, whatever else you can think of. A gun if you have one."

"I'll see you there."

* * *

The Honda screeched into Amber's apartment parking space. Tag was there waiting. He opened Mae's door and felt a wicked one-two punch of pity and fury. He helped her out of the car, guided her to the apartment. Amber carried the unhappy cat.

Amber locked the door behind them and closed the blinds. Pancho hid under the bed. A chair was placed in the center of the well-lighted kitchen, the supplies on the counter. Mae took the seat offered to her. She wasn't in her right mind. She operated and functioned as if she were on cruise-control, or automatic pilot. She gazed vacantly at the stove before her, flinched when she was touched, mumbled nonsense, called Tag _Breuer_ on more than one occasion. Tag soaked a towel with rubbing alcohol. He helped Amber remove Mae's shirt. She wasn't cooperating by raising her arms, so they decided to use a pair of shears to cut it off. This wasn't how Tag had long fantasized about seeing her breasts for the first time. To be fair, they weren't seeing her breasts, but instead a coat of sticky red blood covering them entirely. It reminded him of what he had written in Red Trouble, the brutalized chest of a young Maeve Minnow. This was a more macabre version, making the other seem like a Disney representation by comparison. A deep cut crossed her torso, the blood absolutely everywhere (the gash was clotting, thankfully; strangely it was open in various localities, clotted fully in others). A similar cut was the one on her forearm, only it was clotted fully. After brief deliberation, Tag and Amber got to work cleaning her chest first, using plenty of alcohol. A series of a dozen or two butterfly bandages would soon follow. Remarkably she didn't flinch when the sterilizing compress was applied to her open wounds. She'd flinch when touched on the shoulder or cheek, but nothing when applying alcohol to an open wound? Pretty damned odd.

"He killed my mom and dad," she said evenly. Neither responded to her. "He slit their throats; I saw the knife he used. They say the SacTown Slayer did it, but he didn't. Trent did it." Her vacant gaze didn't leave the stove.

Tag dabbed her abused eye with alcohol-soaked gauze before prying it open to give it a cursory examination. He yelped when it pried open: her eyeball was red as if bleeding profusely from the inside; the blue iris alone remained unaffected. He feared she'd forever be blind in that eye. He told Amber to take a look. She openly wept at the sight of it. He let go of her lids: the eye shut instantly.

"We need to know where else you're bleeding," Amber said and sobbed. Blood was everywhere, including her pants. It wasn't easy determining the sources of the blood. "Would you pull your pants down just briefly so I can see if you're cut there? I need to know where else that mother fucking piece"—sob—"of fucking shit cut you."

"There's a body in the truck," she said. "Trent's going to kill us."

### Chapter 42

Mae stared unseeingly at the glass of milk before her at the kitchen table, mind reeling like a punch-drunk boxer (not a far stretch), veering off into the past, wondering how she got to be right there right then. She automatically brought the plates of lasagna to the sink and scraped the food into the disposal. Her upper left cheek throbbed a wicked pain. Her right ear was numb, which was probably a good thing. She felt her right eye beginning to swell shut. After placing the dishes in the washer she put the warm casserole dish from the oven into the fridge. Her purse sat on the counter. She went inside it and grabbed the large bottle of nearly-empty Ibuprofen, poured four or five in her palm and popped them, chased them with tap water cupped in her hands. With her burnt tongue she flicked at the many flakes of cooked skin at the roof of her mouth.

"Get your ass up here!" Trent yelled from upstairs. It sounded distant, but not nearly as distant as she'd prefer; not continents distant. "We're having sex before bed!"

"Okay, sweetie!"

She spied Trent's keys on the counter. A more conspicuous sight there was none, even though she had no idea why just yet. Had this been a dream, there might be a celestial beam of light shining down upon them. Only one key on the ring meant anything to her. It was a black key with a Dodge Ram logo on it. Their only vehicle. She resented Trent for disallowing her to have a license and her own car. She wasn't granted that privilege, that freedom. She was given a ride to and from work because that's how Trent wanted it. As she stared at the keys on the counter, she was energized by a sudden desire to take the keys, get in the Dodge Ram and drive as far as she could. Till the truck ran out of gas. Where would she go from there? Did it matter? She'd be away from Trent. Till he found her. Then it would be trouble. Red Trouble. And finding her would be easy for someone with his cunning. Her cell phone was GPS tracked, so she couldn't bring her phone. She couldn't use their ATM card or he'd know where she was. She could withdraw the max allowed down the street and then head off. He'd report the truck stolen. She'd have to be long gone by then and need some good luck to boot. Good luck had never been her thing. She couldn't escape the thought, it beckoned her. It was now or never, as Elvis had sung.

"Fucking shit, Mae! You coming or what?"

"Just cleaning up the kitchen! Be there in a minute!"

She snatched the keys (energizing her to her very core), purse, and entered the laundry room. Pancho. She couldn't leave Pancho. She strode into the living room and scooped him up, hurried back to the laundry room. Quietly she opened the door into the garage, hit the lights. Her heart hammered. Adrenaline surged through her veins, and it felt good. Fucking damned good. She held Pancho in one hand and opened the cab door of the Ram. She sat Pancho on the seat beside two large industrial-strength black garbage bags. She didn't know what was inside them, yet somehow she sensed what they were. She resisted the urge to feel through them. The odor was there, if only she'd register it. Pancho jumped out of the cab and ran inside the house. Mae didn't care. She stared at the two bags. Two lumpy bags. One particular lump was fluted; four digits. Fingers? She pressed the bag ever so slightly against a digit with a small protruding band, and traced around it. A ring. With a numbness that could only come from severe shock, she closed the door, extinguished the lights, went through the laundry room into the kitchen.

_He murdered Mom and Dad. He murdered whomever that is in the truck. Who else did he kill? Is he the SacTown Slayer? Probably. He'll kill me, anyway. Just get it over with. Why put off the inevitable? Maybe I'll see Mom and Dad in Heaven._ The idea delivered her into awareness. _I can tell them how sorry I am! Mom will embrace me, cry on my shoulder like she did so many times, and forgive me. Forgive me for bringing Trent into our lives._

She selected the largest knife from the kitchen drawer and headed for the stairs.

"Coming!"

### Chapter 43

She wouldn't stand a chance at overcoming Trent, but damned if she was going to die without taking that monster with him. She owed her parents that much. They'd still be alive if it weren't for her. It was a realization new to her, one that panged her heart to no end, that she was responsible for their deaths.

She shed her shirt as she mounted the stairs, wrapped it loosely around the knife, concealing it. She evaluated it: looked like a shirt hiding a knife. Down the hall their bedroom door was open, lights on. She couldn't see inside the room from her angle.

"Horny, sweetie?" she called out toward the bedroom. She sat the knife and shirt down and dropped her pants.

"What the fuck's taking so long? Yeah, I'm horny."

Though she couldn't yet see him, she pictured him naked on the bed, muscles flexed, erection in hand. Arousing himself to speed things up once she arrived. With the wadded up pants and shirt, the knife wasn't discernible. She figured she'd only get one chance at this, and what hung in the balance was life or death. The crux of it all was that she moments away from finally attaining her freedom, and that freedom would come whether she succeeded or not, at the ultimate price of his life or hers. If she survived she'd gain her freedom from Trent; if she failed and perished, she'd gain her freedom from Trent. When put like that, she couldn't lose. She grinned at her blessed fortune, for the opportunity that she was a dozen steps away from capitalizing on.

There was no room for error. Trent was a strong and wily man. She needed the element of surprise. And she'd need to stun him, if at all possible. Element of surprise. Stun him. Element of surprise. Stun him.

Then it came to her: her naked body. Her bare body was the only thing she could recall that stole his attention in full. She unhooked her bra, let it fall to the floor, slid out of her panties—panties with an embroidered _Trent_ scrawled across the face of them; an anniversary present given to her years ago. She'd never let his noxious name touch her body ever again, especially in a place so sacred as that.

_Why can't I be on my period?_ she lamented. It would aid this plan tremendously, and spare her an abundance of razor-sharp pain. She resigned to the certainty that nothing in life is easy, and every great reward is beholden to the sacrifice put into it. This was going to be a dear sacrifice, with a reward surely as sweet as a thousand I love you's from any man on earth not Trent.

She was just outside their bedroom door, heart palpitating.

Let the sacrifice begin.

She extracted the knife from the jumble of clothes and quickly carved from left wrist to elbow, deep enough to gush blood instantly, while hopefully narrowly avoiding a main artery. The pain wasn't as severe as she had anticipated. Adrenaline? Knowing you're about to die? Yes and yes. She needed more blood. Much more. Thicker blood. She made a deep diagonal cut from her left side mid-abdomen up between her breasts and clear to her right shoulder. Twenty-four inches of bright white pain, adrenaline be damned. But the pain from bloodletting served a secondary purpose, one nearly as important as the primary: it galvanized her. Her mind was as sharp as the blade in her hand. Blood seeped down over her right breast and stomach in a thick sheet, something like a liquidy cherry Fruit Rollup. She cupped a hand and swiped some oozing blood, smeared it over her left breast. There was enough blood to create a veritable shirt of blood. Blood from her forearm gash ran down her hand and dripped onto the carpet from her adorned ring finger. She took a second to appreciate the symbolism of the blood dripping off the princess-cut two carat diamond; a ring once representing the informal oath _Till death do us part,_ and now representing precisely the same, only the intentions and means had changed.

She worried that she may have overdone the injuries. In all likelihood, she had fatally overdone them. There was no time to worry about that. She'd have to stifle the hemorrhaging immediately after dealing with Trent, if she lived to do so. She gathered her pile of clothes with the knife hidden inside and entered the bedroom after a deep nervous breath.

### Chapter 44

Her boyfriend of five long years, five painful hate-filled years lay naked on the bed, stimulating himself, just as she had envisioned. Could Trent's Achilles' heel really be his predictability? She was almost to the foot of the bed when he took notice of her. He sat bolt upright in a sheen of sweat from masturbatory exertion, imbibed in disbelief the numbing sight of his broken angel. His beautiful Mae, naked as the day she entered this world, stood dripping blood from chest and arm and seemingly a dozen other places, as if someone doused her with a bucket of red paint. But Trent knew better. He was intimately familiar with this shade of red.

"What the fuck?"

There was no anger in his voice. She liked her odds when she heard it. He was confused, concerned, maybe even pained. The innumerable bruises he had inflicted upon her were one thing (they were from him) but now his property had been maliciously debased by an unknown source, and that was anything but okay. It was fucking light-years from okay. Occupying his mind in addition to confusion and concern was now anger, and nothing clouds judgment quite like it, something Mae had been banking on since the idea's moments-ago conception.

She passed the foot of the bed, between wall and bed-side. Trent's wide eyes raked over her bleeding body. His attention didn't draw to the knife that came into view as her clothes fell to the floor. As he watched in horror blood dripping from her left hand, her right hand was thrusting forward, moving her queen to checkmate. Trent's focus turned to the knife-wielding hand as its tip punctured left-center neck. A third of the blade's nine inches buried into his throat, severing his carotid artery and hitching on his vertebrae. He never said a word. A creature so vile and corrupted as he, it was only fitting that the last word he uttered in this world was fuck, and a consolation prize from God that the final pain she would ever suffer in this relationship was inflicted by her own hand.

### Chapter 46

Amber was dialing nine-one-one seconds after Mae casually mentioned the dead body in Trent's truck. It wasn't debated. Tag was reeling from his new reality, that of who was likely the deceased in the truck. "There's been a murder," Amber said to the emergency operator. "The body is in a white Dodge Ram parked at Diamond Smiles in Oroville."

"Might as well call for an ambulance, too," Tag said with a wavering voice.

Amber requested an ambulance and gave her address.

"He's going to kill us," Mae said. A mantra she had been recycling without end. "There's a body in the truck. Maybe two."

"Two?" Tag repeated.

"No, Mae. Nobody's going to kill us," Amber asserted. "It's over. The police will be here. Trent will go to jail. It's over."

Tag left the kitchen in tears. He envisioned walking into a morgue to identify a body, Kade's body.

The EMT wouldn't allow Amber in the back of the ambulance, so she followed them to the hospital, Tag sitting beside her in his own little world. "You don't know it's Kade," she said hopefully.

"It's Kade," he said solemnly. "Kade died for what little he knew, and didn't know. Or maybe Trent killed him just to set an example to us, what happens if you don't obey him."

"You give him too much credit. If it really is Kade, he was probably just a victim of circumstance, being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Don't forget that, that psychopath's don't need reasons to do what they do."

"He's no psychopath. What he is, _all_ he is, is evil."

* * *

Tag and Amber refused to leave Mae's side at the hospital. They observed a doctor administer her a blood transfusion, stitch her arm and chest, and conduct a series of tests. By some miracle, Mae had avoided severing any major arteries last night (which isn't to say that she hadn't struck them in varying degrees). It was late morning when they arrived at Enloe Hospital, and early evening when they departed. Mae was released from the hospital following an MRI that showed her cheek bone to have sustained but a hair-line fracture, which was the outcome the doctor had been hoping for. Being released from the hospital meant being turned over to the sergeant detective who had been waiting patiently outside the room for hours. He said she wasn't under arrest, unless she decided that she wished not to come along with him to Chico Station, in which case (and he reluctantly mentioned this) he'd have to read her the Miranda rights and take her in anyway; in summary, Mae was coming with him one way or the other. Tag and Amber thought it a bit excessive to threaten her with arrest when all she had done was discover a body—they had no knowledge of Trent's murder. The detective insisted that she'd be let go after being questioned, that she wasn't going to be charged. He then amended the statement to _probably_ wasn't going to be charged.

The four left the hospital together, but separated just outside the entrance, where a police cruiser parked. Tag and Amber would meet her there shortly.

In a Chico Station room often used for interrogation, Mae spent the better part of an hour being questioned by an uncommonly sensitive and polite detective. Her mental state was dismal at best, her answers convoluted and paranoid. Tag and Amber waited in the lobby, and it was there that they struck up a conversation with a passing officer and learned two major things: Kade's girlfriend Bonnie hadn't been killed, and Trent Blackwood had been found slain at his residence. They were stunned. Had Mae killed Trent? Why didn't she say so? She wouldn't shut up about Trent coming to kill them. Had she lost her mind?

Mae's answers to the detective's questions must have gone in Mae's favor, because she was released from their custody. This man, who opted for informality when he introduced himself to Amber and Tag as William, handed them a business card and wondered if they'd be available to interview over the next couple days, which he doubted would aid their investigation, but would be useful as a character reference of Mae. She did in fact murder someone, and the excuse of self-defense wasn't yet a foregone conclusion. Sensing their horror, he allayed their fears by stating that he knew Mae was innocent, that he couldn't fathom charges being brought up against her. These were mere formalities, he assured.

Tag, Amber, and Mae walked the parking lot in silence. Mae didn't say a word to either of them in the car. Her gaze was perpetually distant, unfocused.

* * *

A part-time bartender filled in for Tag that Friday evening. Amber had called her employer hours earlier and explained her grave situation to her supervisor. She'd be due back to work on Monday. It was Amber's well-received idea that they should get the hell out of Chico for a night or two—well received by Tag; Mae had nothing to say on that matter, or _any_ matter, save for the delusional one that had Trent coming to kill them all. That evening the three rented a hotel room in the little town of Paradise, just outside Chico in the hills. They brought Pancho along hoping he'd comfort Mae, who remained adamant that Trent was searching for them.

The first night at Paradise Inn Mae was silent. She lay face down on the bed and wept more often than not. She refused food and drink. Tag and Amber slept together in one of two double-beds. They agreed to give Mae space, let her sort some things out on her own; she'd talk when she was good and ready.

Sleep was hell. Mae would start bawling at random intervals throughout the night, waking Amber and Tag from their half-sleep state. During one of her more violent outbursts, Amber tried coaxing Mae into a discussion. Mae ignored her, wept on.

The next morning was heavy on the java. The Mr. Coffee that the room provided wouldn't cut it—room service brought two silver carafes and a dish of cream and sugar, three mugs. Tag and Amber considered it progress when Mae accepted a cup of coffee. More progress was made when she petted Pancho. That afternoon Mae got off the bed and went to the bathroom. They heard the shower turn on. Tag stayed behind as Amber hastened her way to the nearest clothing store and bought the first pair of sweat pants and tee-shirt she laid eyes on, a pair of panties and bra (thirty-four C, a lucky guess). It wasn't a comely outfit, but it would be comfortable, and God knew Mae could use the comfort. She made it back as Mae was drying off, tapped on the door. Mae nervously asked who it was.

"It's Amber. I have clothes for you. Fresh, clean, comfortable clothes."

"Who's with you?"

"Just me." A pause, then the door opened. Mae was wrapped in a towel.

"Come in."

"I don't have to, I just wanted to give these to you."

She handed the bag over to Mae. Mae insisted she come in. Amber closed the door behind her. Mae locked it before dumping the contents of the bag onto the Formica counter. "I'm sorry for involving you," Mae said as she sorted through the garments.

"Don't be sorry. Really. You have nothing to be sorry for."

Mae removed her towel shamelessly—a disregard for the body that she ascribed no value to, other than its ability to captivate Trent—and handled the panties, bit off the tag. Amber gawked at her bare body, and not for the reason she would have guessed on another day under another circumstance. A stitched scar like a three-foot-long millipede slanted across her torso. There was a sobering plentitude of bruises across her body, most of which had yellowed with age. There were old scars, as well, one of which was over her heart, as if she had heart surgery some time ago. Amber would never look at Mae with a lustful eye again. It was all she could do to keep from crying. But she wouldn't cry, refused to cry. She would remain strong for Mae.

"I killed him," she said and stepped into her panties.

"You did the right thing. You know that, don't you?"

She nodded. "But I didn't kill him in self-defense. He thought we were going to have sex. I stuck a knife in his throat. I'll go to prison. And you know what? I think I'm okay with that. It'll be better than how I lived before."

"You are _not_ going to prison, believe-you-me. There won't be any charges brought up against you. Can I ask you something?"

Mae bit the price-tag off the sweat pants and nodded.

"Tag and I have been wondering about it. Maybe you told the police—probably you told the police—but yesterday morning when you found me at Diamond Smiles, that was the morning after what had happened at your house. After that asshole got what he deserved. Where were you between? Why did you...?" She sighed, frustrated at her inability to express her thoughts in a cohesive question. "I don't understand."

"I'd have went to your place if I knew where you lived. I drove to Diamond Smiles and waited for you."

"That night? You slept in the truck overnight?"

"I didn't sleep. It was only a few minutes."

"It was overnight, hun."

"Only a few minutes," Mae insisted.

### Chapter 46

Mae had no idea how much money Trent was worth, didn't figure it mattered much anyway. But there's a little thing called common-law marriage that she hadn't heard of—not as it pertains to the legal ramifications, anyway. Five years living together in a union qualified if certain measures were met. It would take a lawyer and a few calendar pages before she'd get what she had coming to her, which by all estimates was a hundred-thousand and change. More than that was the house that was bought and paid for by Trent's mother. Mae had no intention of living in that hell house so tainted with nightmarish memories, so after selling it she'd be roughly a half a million dollars the richer after taxes. That was down the road, though. For the time being she had a checkbook and debit card and access to enough money to get her own apartment in Chico. She had no friends other than Amber—still getting to know Tag—so she sought an apartment in the same complex as Amber and put a deposit on a place two doors down from her. She'd have to wait three days for it, but that was fine. Amber insisted she stay at her place for the time being. Amber even offered to sleep on the couch, but Mae thought that was stupid and shared the bed with her. With a giggle, Amber requested that Mae wear a ski jacket to bed that first night. Mae was puzzled.

"It's an inside joke."

Tag was working that Sunday evening, and texted Amber hoping he could stop by after work to see his lovely ladies. She texted back that they were just having some Slippery Nipples at her place and would love the company. Tag wondered if they'd also have anything to drink tonight. Amber texted back _ha-ha, aren't you a comedian?_

Sunday is a dead night for the bars, so Tag got away with closing shop at midnight and drove his Corolla straight to Amber's. As he went up the stairs he heard them laughing. It tickled his heart, he smiled and muttered, "Good for you, Mae."

To Tag's surprise the door was unlocked. Trust in humanity was being restored at a heart-warming pace. The girls were playing Gin Rummy at the small dining table and had a bottle of butterscotch schnapps and Bailey's Irish Cream at hand, two filmy shot glasses at the ready. They persuaded Tag to join them and dealt him in.

"How are you doing, Mae? You look great." Tag judged he may have overdone the great.

"I'm doing okay. Thank you for asking. Did you know this little nut here has six toes?" She laughed, the kind intensified by liquor.

"No way," Tag said to Amber, "you have six toes?"

Amber was laughing too, and nodded. She showed Tag her left foot. Six toes. Holy crap! Tag looked closer. Between the two smallest toes was a toe of a slightly different pigment. Emphasis on pig. Upon closer inspection he saw that it was a little piece of Vienna Sausage. It had a pink toe-nail painted on it. Tag laughed. Mae was busting up, tried to explain but couldn't. Amber took a try at it. "I was cutting up Vienna sausages earlier to put on crackers, and I guess a piece dropped on the floor. I was too buzzed to notice that I had stepped on it and it wedged between my toes. So Mae and I were on the couch, talking, and I was painting my toe-nails and I went to paint my second toe and it... it had no nail!" She could hardly speak she was laughing so hard.

"So I suggested she paint a nail on it anyway," Mae said.

Tag borrowed Amber's shot glass and poured himself a cocktail. After the laughter calmed down a tad, he asked what was new. Nothing, really. Well that wasn't entirely true. Amber drove Mae to her Oroville house so she could gather up some clothes, medicine, and personal belongings.

"Must've been hard going back there, huh?"

"She did great," Amber said proudly. "I thought she'd react a lot worse."

"I've come to terms with what I did," Mae said, "and I don't feel the least bit bad about it. I just feel bad for Kade."

Tag nodded. "It could have been worse. He could have killed Bonnie too, instead of waiting for her to pass by before coming inside our apartment." He forced a grin. "Well I'm happy for you. You deserve to feel good about things now. For the first time ever you're going to have a normal life."

"I had a normal life, for the four years before Trent. But yeah, I know what you mean." She fixed a more sober gaze at Tag and said, "I'd still like to know how you knew all you knew about me."

"As would I."

"I guess there are some things in life we'll never understand."

"And that's just it," Tag said. "I'd love nothing more than to satisfy your curiosity by telling you how I know the details of your life. It would satisfy mine, too. Maybe it was divine intervention. A gift from God, so I could try to help you. Who knows?"

"You know, they never did catch the SacTown Slayer," Mae said. "You know an awful lot, what do you know about that?"

"Not a damned thing. Just what you know. He stopped killing five years ago, disappeared from the face of the earth. Good riddance."

"But you knew that Trent pretended to be the SacTown Slayer and killed my parents."

"Yeah, but that's different. I knew that because it relates to you. You're my protagonist. I guess Trent's my antagonist, and the SacTown Slayer doesn't fit anywhere in there."

"Could I read your novels some time?"

"You want to read my stories about you? It would be like reading your biography, I suppose. I don't see why not." Tag poured a couple shots for the girls, then one for himself. After shooting it he said, "So you got everything you need out of your house? I don't expect you'll be returning."

"I don't plan on it. I probably wouldn't have returned today if I didn't need my medicine. I'd have just bought new clothes instead and called it good."

"I know I'm overstepping my boundaries by saying this, but I really don't think you need that medicine. For all we know it's been affecting your mind, and not for the better. I never did agree with your parents giving you those crazy pills."

"Then why'd you write it?" Mae asked.

Tag had no answer, at first. But yes, he did know, and it was simple. "I write from the heart, doesn't always turn out how I want."

"About those pills, I didn't agree with taking them either, as you somehow know. But that's not the medicine I'm referring to. I have insane allergies and I needed my nasal spray."

"You don't take lithium anymore?"

"Nope. Haven't in years. I thought they made me zombie'ish so I stopped taking them."

"Hmm. Maybe I'm wrong, but I'm pretty sure I'm not."

She lowered her hand of cards, narrowed on Tag. "What?"

"Trent's been sneaking you those pills."

"No he hasn't."

"Like I said, maybe I'm wrong. It's just that I wrote about it in my second novel."

"Oh yeah? And how did he 'sneak' me the pills?"

"Every morning he'd make a juice smoothie for both of you. A juicer with pieces of fruit shoved through the grinder. After his juicy he'd make yours, and a pink pill would be grinded in there with it." Mae went from buzzed to sober by the end of Tag's supposition.

"That asshole!"

"That's what I was afraid of," Tag said. "Well you don't have to ever take them again, and I guess that's the important thing. Better late than never."

Both bottles of liquor were empty by 2:00 A.M. Amber estimated that she'd have a rough day at work tomorrow. Mae was assured by Nancy, her supervisor at Diamond Smiles, that she wouldn't be terminated, that in light of her tragic situation she'd be given a clean slate at work. Mae appreciated it, but quit her job anyway. She looked forward to sleeping in tomorrow and wished Amber would be there with her. She'd enjoy her life to the fullest before she enrolled in college classes next semester at Chico State University. Hell, she had the money to stick it out for a Bachelor's or even a Master's degree without needing a job (after the assets were liquidated, that is).

Tag regretted that he'd better be on his way for the night, said his goodbyes. Mae gave him an unexpected hug and peck on the cheek. Amber followed suit with a hug and a peck on the lips. Then more than a peck. Mae watched with a grin.

"You didn't tell me you two were seeing each other," Mae said, letting it be known by her tone that it hurt her feelings.

"I don't know what we are," Amber said, gazing longingly into Tag's eyes. "What are we?"

"Whatever you want us to be. I don't want you to be someone you aren't, if you know what I mean."

"No, I don't know what you mean," Mae interjected.

Amber scowled at Tag.

"Sorry," he said to Amber, but his wry grin said otherwise. He was stirring the pot and loved every second of it.

"Ruh roh," Mae said in her Scooby-Doo voice. She swooped in and smiled crookedly at the two still embracing. "Something juicy is cooking and it smells good. Filet of Secrets with stuffed mush-rumors. Spill it, mis amigos. What am I in the dark of?"

The lovers released one another, Tag looked away, Amber looked away.

"I see," Mae said sadly. "It's about me."

"No, Mae," Amber said. "He's just referring to something a little embarrassing for me to admit."

Her eyebrows raised. "Oh! Are you...? You don't like...?" She looked at Tag for help. He was preoccupied by something on the wall. It might have been a fleck of paint.

"I don't anymore," Amber assured her. "It was just a harmless crush."

"I had no idea. I'm flattered. I guess _was_ flattered. It was seeing me change in the bathroom that made me ugly to you, wasn't it? The scar. Scars."

"And the bruises. No, it wasn't that. You're just as beautiful, regardless of what that piece of shit did to you. It's just that I got together with Tag and something clicked. I like him. I like how I feel with him. I'm more comfortable in my skin. I know that sounds weird, but it's true."

Mae hugged her. "I'm happy for you, Amber. You deserve someone like Tag."

"Speaking of Tag," Amber said as Mae let go of her. She gave him a feisty look. "Since you dropped the dime on me, how about you give her a little confession of your own?"

"And what would that be?" Tag asked. He was busy staring at his phone, tapping this and that, cheeks growing rosy.

"She needs positive reinforcement, don't you think? After years of psychological and physical abuse. Tell her, Tag."

"Not you too?" Mae said in awe.

He checked email on his phone, wouldn't look Mae in the eyes. "You're pretty, okay? Find me someone who wouldn't have a thing for you."

"There's Something About Mae-ry," Amber jested.

"Mae-Vee," Mae corrected without thought. "You two are fucking with me," she said confidently, grinning.

Tag said "Amber wishes," as Amber said "Tag wishes." The three laughed.

"I feel so wanted! Thank you, guys!" Mae went into the bathroom to brush her teeth, said goodnight to Tag, asked him to send his two novels to MaeClarkisme at yahoo-dotcom. He said he would and goodnight.

* * *

On Wednesday the apartment was ready for Mae to move in. Amber had offered to help move, but it had to wait until she got off work at 6:00. Tag and Mae had managed to do the moving on their own that morning. Tag had borrowed Dallas's truck and they transported a few loads from Sears and Pier 1 to the new apartment. Mae decided she'd sell the Oroville house furnished. New beginnings meant saying goodbye to all that was her past.

The last trip of the day was to Bed Bath & Beyond. As Mae was browsing the cutlery, Tag asked if she had begun reading either novel.

"I started the first one but had to stop. I couldn't handle remembering my fake parents. So I started the second one. You write well, Tag."

"Thanks. Aren't you sweet to say."

"Yes I am." She pinched his cheek and put a box of silverware in her cart. "Amber is a lucky woman to be with you."

"You get sweeter by the mouthful."

"When will you be writing your next novel?"

"I think I'm done writing."

"Aww, why?"

"Not by choice. I have writer's block or something. I can't think of anything to write now that I'm done writing of Mae Clark. I tried. It was horrible."

"Maybe you were put on this earth to write just those two novels. Your destiny."

"Who knows? How far did you get with the second novel?"

"About halfway. I skipped through a few parts that were difficult to read. Bad memories." She pushed the cart along to the dishware. "How much of what you wrote is real and how much is pure imagination?"

"I thought it was all imagination until I met you."

"Granted, but now that you know I'm real, how much of it is imagination?"

"I don't know. Wouldn't you be a better judge of that than me?"

"Yes, you'd think. But the part about Michael, my neighbor, you know who I'm talking about?"

"Of course. I wrote it. That was in my first novel, Red Trouble."

"I'm not referring to the part where I kissed him."

"You did more than kiss him, sweet-cakes."

She sighed. "Okay, showed him my dumb boobs. Not that part. You wrote that he committed suicide. That didn't happen. I flirted with him so he wouldn't commit suicide. And he didn't. It worked."

"Yeah it worked. But I guess it only lasted for so long. Someone who flirts with the idea of killing himself isn't going to escape the thought forever."

"So you mean to tell me that he did kill himself?"

"Oh I don't know. In my book he did, but to be honest I was just making stuff up to make a chapter more exciting. It just as easily might never have happened. But maybe it did. It's still somewhat like a dream knowing that he even exists."

"He was a strange boy. A curious boy. Hormones worked very well. If he did kill himself, that's really depressing. If it happened according to your novel, when did it take place?"

"Didn't you read it?"

"No. I skimmed over that part when I saw where it was heading. It was too sad. Sorry. No offense, you do write well. It's just hard to stomach certain parts. Like Michael dying."

"He died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. It wasn't long after your parents died."

"It couldn't have been _too_ soon after they died," Mae said. "I hung out with him a few months after, some crazy shit was going on during that time, jealousy and stuff, Trent and a couple other boys I knew, Edgar this Dutch kid, and Timothy, a sweetheart who stuttered really badly. I still keep in touch with him. Remind me to tell you that story, it was seriously insane. But in regards to Michael, I wonder why I never heard about him committing suicide. I guess suicide isn't news-worthy and I wasn't living next door to him anymore."

"Even if it was news-worthy, the SacTown Slayer was dominating the airwaves at that time. I suppose it may have happened after the slayings ceased, but if so, not long after."

Mae put a box of blue plates in her cart. "Poor Michael. I'm going to check online tomorrow after Verizon hooks up my cable and internet, to see if he really did die. If not, maybe I'll call him. It would be nice to see how he's been."

"You know something?" Tag reflected. "I remember writing that part. I was wanting to—bear in mind that I thought Michael wasn't a real person—I was wanting to make Michael the serial killer. Have him commit suicide because he felt bad for doing what he did to all those families."

"Yeah right, Michael a serial killer." She met eyes with Tag. "What made you change your mind?"

"I have no idea. Sometimes that little muse in your head who's responsible for creative writing has a will of his own. The muse dictates the direction of a story. He must not have thought it best for my novel, and wanted the killer to remain undiscovered."

"Well I'm glad," Mae said. "You know how shitty I would feel if he was the serial killer? I helped him out when he was depressed before all those slayings took place. It's bad enough I helped a priest out, leading to kids being molested. There's only so much kindness a gal can do that ends up turning to shit, you know? I'd rather not consider that what I did led to people getting killed. Which glasses do you like better, these or these?"

"Those. They're cheaper, too. Bonus."

That evening the apartment was looking like a home. Amber stopped by after she got off work with a present tucked at her side. Tag kissed her and declared how beautiful she looked. She blushed, more so when Mae grinned at her.

"The place looks awesome!" Amber said to end the awkwardness. "You have good taste in furniture, Mae."

"Thanks. What did you get me?" Mae stared eagerly at the wrapped parcel at her side.

"A house-warming gift." She handed it to Mae, who wasted no time opening it. It was an ornate wooden cross, hand carved and stained dark brown. "It's thought to be good luck for a house," Amber informed. "Every home needs a cross on the wall, my Grandma says. Protection against evil."

"Thanks, Amber. It's pretty, too. I'll hang it by the door, so I'll be blessed every time I leave the house and again when I come home. I'll put it up right away."

Mae's first night alone wasn't without its nightmares. Trent was raising hell even after death. At least the bruises she received in her dreams were gone by morning. She couldn't remember the last time she dreamt of Breuer, either. It had to have been a couple years. That night she had one. Breuer was a real person, and everyone seemed to think he was human. He was sprightly as always, capering about, skipping along as he loved doing.

She woke with no idea where she was. A terrifying sensation. She looked over at Pancho sleeping in a ball beside her and that comforted her. It was her new apartment. She opened the blinds: sunny cloudless day. The kind of day that was made for walking. She couldn't recall the last time she went for a walk. But she was free from the bastard now: she could go for a walk on a whim and not have to answer to anyone. It was a simple thought but her heart swelled with appreciation for her newfound freedom.

Why not go for a walk? Heck, you could walk to the DMV to get a study guide for your driver's license. You can't expect Amber and Tag to drive you around forever, you know.

To think, she could have her own car and a license that allowed her to drive clear to Canada if it should strike her fancy. It was enough to put a grin on her face. She resolved to make the most of this beautiful day and its limitless possibilities.

After a bowl of Raisin Bran, she gathered a skirt, underwear, and a charming little pink cotton vee-neck shirt and headed for the shower. The water pressure was dismal at best, but that couldn't bring her down today. As she washed her body she was careful to avoid the stitches in her arm and chest, and was pleased to see the last of her bruises had faded from saffron to nearly invisible. She'd never have ugly bruises again, God willing. The scar on her chest was ugly, though. But it would fade in time. It wouldn't go away entirely, but she supposed that wasn't a bad thing. It would be a reminder of the sacrifice made to achieve her ultimate freedom. Freedom from Trent. And what sacrifice could be more just?

"None," Breuer said from the other side of the shower glass.

Mae startled, slid the glass door open. Breuer smiled at her from atop the counter, sitting with his hairy legs crossed, hooves for feet. He hadn't aged a day.

"Don't be scared, Mae-Vee," he said. "You really see me, huh? Incredible."

"Breuer? How? I thought you weren't real."

"You can't believe everything you hear. And why wouldn't I be real? Just because you went five years without seeing me? Have you stopped to consider that you haven't seen me since shortly after you started taking those goddamn pills?"

"Of course. But when I stopped taking them I still didn't see you. And Trent, he said you were just part of my imagination. A hallucination."

"Yeah, and Trent knows everything, huh? Minnow, I've done some bad things in my existence, but introducing you to that piece of shit Trent has to be the worst decision I've ever made. Ever."

"You can say that again. Breuer, I gotta be honest, I'm a little spooked to be seeing you right now. I was sure you were an imaginary friend. A hallucination."

"Again, you can thank Trent for brainwashing you into thinking I don't exist. And what you just said, about how you stopped taking those pills, that's not true. You never stopped taking them. Good ol' Trent, before he could legally write a prescription, he went to Mexico once a year to buy a shit-load of those crazy pills. You love your juice smoothies, don't you? You were juiced, all right."

"So you really are real?"

"You're looking at me, aren't you? Of course I'm real."

Mae shut off the water and took her towel off the hook, dried herself, never taking her eyes off Breuer. "I just wish I could know for sure."

"Ye with so little faith."

Mae cracked a smile. "All you ask for is faith the size of a mustard seed. Right, Breuer?"

"Exactly! And I don't even get that much! But I know how you feel, honestly I do. You've been fed a lot of horse shit from people over the years. Get dressed, let's go for a walk. The DMV?"

"Yep. I want my driver's license."

"And you deserve one. We have to be back by 3:00, though."

"Why?"

"Are you lucky to have me back or what? What would you do without me? Verizon will be here to install cable and internet, remember?"

"Oh yeah! That's right!"

"Come on, woman! Put those sexy clothes on that sexy human body of yours and let's go get some sun! There's a _bee-yooo-tiful_ day out there waiting for li'l Maeve Minnow and her bestest friend to get reacquainted with one another!"

She smiled at him and got to putting her clothes on. Her shoes weren't the best for walking in, they were more for looking cute, but maybe they could stop by somewhere and get a pair of Sketchers. Why the heck not?

Mae took the key off the counter and slung her purse over a shoulder, excitedly asked Breuer if he was ready to go.

"Hell yes."

"How do I look?"

"Like an angel."

She headed to the door, paused when something occurred to her. "Breuer? Did you have anything to do with Tag knowing everything about me? My past? My life story? You did, didn't you?"

"And I suppose I made Amber have the hots for you, too," he said facetiously and rolled his eyes.

"Tell me the truth, did you have anything to do with what Tag wrote about me?—what Tag knew about me?—my shitty past?"

"I may have whispered things in his ear. I can't remember exactly, it was a long time ago." He winked at her, and in that wink was the truth. A confession. "In time I got to be pretty friendly with the muse in his head; great guy, his name is Dirk, and is extremely open to suggestion and dictation." Breuer giggled.

She shook her head at him. "You're incorrigible, you know that?"

Mae opened the door, said imaginary friends first. He curtsied and crossed the threshold. She stopped in the doorway. "You sure do a lot of whispering in people's ears. That's not very becoming of oneself. Whispering in people's ears is for the devil. Maybe I should have named you Lucifer instead of Breuer, huh?" She chuckled at the thought, as did Breuer, to a lesser degree. "But heaven forbid I call you my _guardian angel,"_ she said thickly, and giggled some more.

She thudded the door shut a little too firmly behind her, and consequently heard a slight scraping sound on the other side of the wall. She'd later have to turn the upside-down wooden cross back upright.

"What a _bee-yooo-tiful_ day!"

###

