"I said, where are you going? Where are you taking me?"

"I'm taking you home. Where do you think I'm taking you?"

"This isn't the way to my house," she told him, her earlier panic surfacing. She debated whether to open the car door, whether to throw herself out of the moving vehicle.

"You said to turn west on South Street."

"This isn't west," she told him. "It's east."

"Then I guess I turned the wrong way," he said easily. "I've always had a lousy sense of direction." He slowed the car, but instead of turning it around, he pulled it over to the side of the road.

Bonnie's hand tightened on the door handle, her eyes frantically scanning the road for other cars, other people. There was no one. If she tried to run, he'd chase after her. How long before his hands were across her mouth, m.u.f.fling her screams?

"Do you want to tell me what you're so afraid of," he said.

Bonnie's eyes continued searching the side of the road. "Who said I'm afraid?"

"Do you always react so violently when someone turns the wrong way?"

Bonnie swiveled around in her seat to face him. "Did you kill Joan?" she asked directly, deciding she had nothing to lose.

"What?"

"You heard me."

"Are you serious?"

"Of course I'm serious."

"Of course I didn't kill her. Did you?"

"What?"

"You heard me."

"Are you serious?"

"Of course I'm serious."

"Of course I didn't kill her."

And suddenly they were laughing. It started as an impromptu burst of giggles and ended with great whoops of glee. Tears streamed down Bonnie's face.

"I think that was probably the most ridiculous conversation I've ever had," he said.

"I wish I could say the same thing," Bonnie told him, thinking that she'd had her fair share of ridiculous conversations of late.

"You honestly think I might have killed Joan?"

"I don't know what I think anymore," Bonnie admitted. "Your name was in her address book, I saw you at her funeral, you wouldn't talk to me, you deliberately ignored me. Why? Why wouldn't you talk to me?"

"I was scared," he said flatly, his turn to stare out the front window. "I move to a new city to try and put my life together, and the first real friend I make gets murdered. Not only that, but I find myself being questioned by the police. Pretty scary stuff, even for a native of New York."

"What sort of questions did the police ask you?"

"Their questions were mostly about you, actually."

"Me?"

"What my impressions of you were, if I thought you were mentally stable, if Joan had ever said anything to me about being afraid of you."

"If Joan was afraid of me?"

"They made it quite clear you were their prime suspect."

Bonnie laughed. "No wonder you didn't want to talk to me."

"It was a bit unnerving."

"What changed your mind?"

"You," he said, the soft wave of his smile growing bolder, threatening to linger. "The more I thought about it, the more ridiculous the notion of you shooting anybody seemed. And then when I saw you in the staff room tonight, looking so scared and vulnerable, I decided I was being silly, and that Joan would have been quite angry with me."

"Joan? What do you mean?"

"She liked you. She once said that if the circ.u.mstances had been different, she thought the two of you could have been great friends."

"I doubt that," Bonnie said, uncomfortable with the notion.

"You're not that dissimilar, you know."

"Joan and I were nothing alike," Bonnie insisted, her good spirits quickly evaporating, her nausea hovering.

"Physically, no, but in other more important ways..."

"I've never had a problem with alcohol, Mr. Freeman."

"I wasn't alluding to Joan's drinking," he said, as Bonnie squirmed in her seat. "I was thinking more of her honesty, her persistence, her sense of humor."

"Did Joan ever say anything to you about my daughter?" Bonnie asked, changing the subject.

"Just that she was a beautiful little girl."

"Anything else?"

"Not that I can remember."

"What about my brother?"

"Your brother?"

"Nick Lonergan."

He looked puzzled. "The name doesn't ring any bells." He paused, his head tilting toward her, forcing her eyes to his, like a slow magnet. "What are all these questions about, Bonnie? What are you afraid of?"

Bonnie took a deep breath, releasing it slowly, watching it form a thin patch of film on the car's front window. "I'm afraid that whoever killed Joan might be after me and my little girl. I'm afraid that n.o.body believes we're in any danger, and that they won't believe it until it's too late." She started to cry.

In the next second, his arms reached out for her, drawing her toward him, hugging her tightly to his chest while she sobbed. "It's okay," he was saying, soothing her as if she were a child. "Let it out. It's okay. It's okay."

"I'm so scared that somebody is going to hurt my baby," she sobbed, "and there's nothing I can do to stop them. And I'm so tired and I feel so sick, and I never get sick, G.o.dd.a.m.n it. I never get sick."

"n.o.body's going to hurt your little girl," Josh Freeman told her, smoothing her hair with repeated strokes of his hand.

She looked up at him. "Do you promise?" she asked, feeling foolish, but needing to hear the words.

"I promise," he said.

By the time he pulled into her driveway, Bonnie's tears were dry. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I had no right to lay that on you."

"Don't be sorry," he told her. "Are you all right?"

Bonnie nodded. Rod's car was in the driveway, although Sam was still out in Joan's red Mercedes. "I think I'll make myself a cup of tea and get right into bed."

"Sounds like a good idea."

Bonnie pushed open the car door. "Thanks for being there," she told him sincerely, climbing out of the car as the front door to her house opened and Rod appeared in the doorway.

"Anytime."

Bonnie closed the car door and Josh backed out of the driveway. In the next second, Rod was at her side. "Who was that?" he asked, folding her inside his arms, kissing her cheek. "Where's your car?"

"In the school parking lot," she told him. "It wouldn't start. Josh gave me a lift home."

"Josh?"

"Josh Freeman, Sam's art teacher."

"That was nice of him."

"He's a nice man," she said.

"Wasn't he at Joan's funeral?"

"They were friends," Bonnie said, about to say more when Rod interrupted.

"Bonnie, you're not sticking your nose in where it doesn't belong, are you?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean. Let the police deal with Joan's murder, Bonnie. You're an amateur. You could get hurt." He led her inside the house.

"Josh wouldn't hurt me," Bonnie said, more to herself than to her husband, amazed at her change of heart. Less than half an hour ago, she was afraid the man was about to kill her. Now she was convinced he'd never hurt her. "Where were you tonight?" she asked, as they entered the kitchen. "I called to see if you could pick me up, and Lauren said you'd gone out."

"I left some work at the studio that I needed to do for tomorrow, and I had to drive back and get it. Made me so d.a.m.n mad. It was the last thing I needed."

"Tough day?"

"Are there any other kind?" Rod brushed some stray hairs away from Bonnie's forehead. "How about you? How are you feeling?"

"Not great."

"Feel like a cup of tea?"

"You read my mind."

"That's what I'm here for." He moved directly to the kettle, filled it with water, put it on the stove. "Why don't you go upstairs and get into bed. I can bring this up when it's ready."

Bonnie smiled gratefully, walking slowly to the stairs, fatigue pulling on her legs, like heavy weights. She reached the top of the stairs, automatically turning toward Amanda's room.

"My sweet angel," she whispered over her daughter's bed, staring down at the child's sleeping face, once again struck by how much she resembled her older half sister. She wondered if Lauren had ever gone to bed tightly clutching a Big Bird doll, if she'd refused to give up her favorite blanket to be washed in case the "good smell" got washed out, if she'd ever fallen off her tricycle and cut her cheek. Bonnie bent over and planted a delicate kiss along Amanda's tiny scar, careful not to wake her. "I love you," she whispered.

I love you more, she heard Amanda call after her silently as she crossed the hall. The door to Lauren's room was closed, although the light was still on. Bonnie knocked gently.

"Who is it?" Lauren called from the other side.

"It's Bonnie," Bonnie told her, hesitating to open the door without permission. "Can I come in?"

"Okay," Lauren said, and Bonnie pushed open the door. Lauren was sitting up in bed, her schoolbooks spread out around her.

"How are you feeling?" Bonnie asked.

"Okay, I think. I hope. I'm sick of feeling sick."

"I know what you mean. How'd the dinner party go on Sat.u.r.day night? We never got a chance to talk about it."

"It was great," Lauren said, her face filling with animation. "You should have seen Marla. She was wearing this black dress cut down to her toes. She looked spectacular. She said to tell you she was sorry you couldn't be there."

"I'll bet."

"I think she has a crush on Dad," Lauren said.

"Really?"

"She was hanging around him all night. Every time he said anything, she'd giggle, even when it wasn't funny. It was pretty gross."

Bonnie chuckled, although the image of a giggling Marla in a dress cut down to her toes and hanging all over her husband was not one she wished to keep in the fore-front of her mind. "But you had a good time?"

"The best."