Jane rests against the wheel for several moments, gasping for breath, trembling.

Suddenly she remembers where she is and why: Dorian.

She jerks her back straight and sits up in the pa.s.senger seat, rubbing a clear circle into the misty gla.s.s with her quaking fingers. It has stopped raining and the sidewalk outside the Spector Building throngs with lunchtime office workers.

A rattling moan rasps in Jane's parched throat. What if she's missed him? What if he's already gone?

"No," she groans, gathering up her knitting and stuffing it into her handbag. She can't bear the idea of missing this meeting with Dorian. Jane needs him too much. She needs to be Dorian's whole world, if only for a few stolen moments.

Shaking with mingled desire and terror, Jane steps out of her car, her sensible lace-up shoes touching wet pavement just as she catches sight of Dorian pushing through the revolving door.

Jane's breath snags in her throat at the sight of him, so tall and strong and handsome. Quickly she works her way through halted rush-hour traffic jamming the street, never letting her lover out of sight. Breathless and shivery as a schoolgirl, Jane watches Dorian's figure as it moves through the crowd. She angles recklessly between the stream of cars and trucks to place herself on the sidewalk just ahead of him as he heads down K Street. He will be so surprised to see her. She is going to be his whole world.

She centers herself on the sidewalk, waiting, just able to see the crown of Dorian's dark head bobbing up and down as he walks in her direction. Soon, soon.

Jane stands still, letting oncoming pedestrians stream around her, knowing they won't notice the mousy little woman in their midst. n.o.body will notice her but Dorian, and that is just as she wishes it.

The moment has arrived. As Dorian surges toward her, Jane shifts to her left and positions herself directly in his path.

He stops, looking down at her with blue velvet eyes.

"h.e.l.lo," Jane says breathlessly, smiling.

"Hi there," Dorian returns, studying her with a quizzical smile as if straining to remember something. His smile deepens, a flicker of recognition. "You're Erik's teacher, aren't you?"

"I'm your whole world," Jane whispers.

He leans toward Jane. "I beg your para""

Jane does not give Dorian time to finish the thought. With a quicksilver movement, she plunges a glistening knitting needle deep into the tender tissue of Dorian's brain with one deft thrust into his right nostril. Just as quickly, she withdraws the instrument and replaces it in her handbag.

Dorian sways slightly on the pavement before her, still standing, a thin trickle of blood coursing down his chin, blue velvet eyes wide in a silent shriek that consumes Jane entirely, body and soul.

Jane has become Dorian's whole world.

Dorian staggers forward a step, placing a hand on Jane's shoulder to steady his failing legs. And then he falls, crumpling down onto the sidewalk, his eyes never leaving hers.

As she watches Dorian's final spasms, a volcanic o.r.g.a.s.m wracks Jane's body, coming in a shock wave that roots her to the pavement, paralyzing her for the full count.

One, two, three, four, five.

And then it's over.

Jane turns away from her lover's lifeless body and pa.s.ses through the gathering crowd of spectators like a ghost, transparent and unnoticed. As she wends her way across the street toward her rented car, she hears the first shouts of comprehension. A shrill scream. Someone is calling for an ambulance.

Jane eases the car out into traffic and drives away. She glances at her watch and smiles, realizing she'll have time to stop at the bakery for cupcakes on her way back to school.

Won't the children be surprised?

SYMPATHY CALL.

Michael Garrett.

The impoverished appearance of his hometown came as no surprise to Mark Morgan. It had been years since his last visit, and h.e.l.l, the whole f.u.c.kin' world was going down the toilet, so why should his boyhood stomping grounds be spared? Scanning the streets he'd roamed as a child, he found even longstanding landmarks barely recognizable. The neighborhood school looked like an abandoned prison, deserted and vandalized, scarred by broken windows and graffiti. Several houses along the encircling block had been condemned. But just ahead, with bright curtained windows, unretrieved mail spilling from the mailbox, and unopened newspapers scattered across the porch, was her house, or at least the house where she'd lived as a kid. An inhabitable house seemed oddly out of place despite its own deteriorated condition. The roof needed patching, the shutters were rotten, and the lawn and shrubbery were ragged and neglected. It was the same place, though, he was sure. Mark sighed. Tracking Beth over the years hadn't been easy. She'd married, changed her name, divorced, then remarried, changed her name again. Though he and Beth had been apart for almost twenty-five years, Mark had constantly monitored her from a distance, watching the latest developments in her life from afar in hope that still another divorce might create an opportunity for reunion between the two of them. That's why he'd checked the new telephone directory year after year to make sure her parents were still listed. Through them, he'd be able to locate Beth if her name changed again, or if she moved away without his knowledge.

Mark exhaled and slowly shook his head, surprised that her folks had never moved to the suburbs. Couldn't Beth have offered them financial help? Of course, she would havea"if she hadn't married an a.s.shole.

Make that two a.s.sholes.

Mark, I'm so happy. I've never gone steady before.

Mark sat in silence, her voice drifting through his mind. He cut the ignition of his Jeep Cherokee, the engine ticking as it cooled, while he stared blankly at the house. A youthful image of Beth's face was branded in his memory, and Mark sat in frozen silence until the wind swept a wave of dead leaves across the pavement.

A feverish tingle seared his veins. Having repeatedly parked in this exact spot so long ago, Mark envisioned sitting behind the wheel of his '66 Mustang, his fingers tapping to the rhythm of the Beatles on the AM radio, his high school graduation ta.s.sel dangling from the rearview mirror. In his mind he saw her seated in the worn bucket seat beside him, her lips protruding in a playful pout in an attempt to have her way.

A nearby police siren jarred him back to reality.

Glancing around, Mark noted a rusted Chevy parked in the driveway against a ragged row of shrubbery that lined the side of the house. Despite the unretrieved mail and newspapers, there was still a chance that Beth's parents were at home.

As he exited the Jeep, Mark noted the sound of speeding automobiles on a nearby freeway that hadn't even existed when he and Beth dated. A squirrel scampered along the power lines overhead; a dog howled down the street. Mark shook his head, his stomach quivering as he tracked mud up the cracked walkway to the front porch. Anxiety grew with every step.

At the door he hesitated. He'd endured almost a quarter of a century of pain and loneliness since he'd last stood in this very spot and held her in his arms. He rubbed his eyes, recalling the soft texture of her lips, how thick and creamy they felt, and the smell of her freshly shampooed hair. He could almost feel the fur collar of her coat tickle his neck as they kissed good night, the memories so intense, it was as if it had been only yesterday. Though they'd lived separate lives, she had always been with him in spirit.

Always.

Not tonight, Mark. It's ... my time of the month.

Mark finally punched the doorbell, imagining the scent of her perfume as he scrubbed his shoes across the welcome mat. He shifted nervously on his feet and swallowed hard as the gla.s.s panes of the front door vibrated from movement inside. What if her parents didn't understand? What if they sent him away?

Two dusty white blades of the Venetian blinds separated and an elderly bloodshot eye peeked through, rolling from side to side in a cautious examination of the surroundings. When the blinds were finally released, the door creaked open a couple of inches and the wrinkled face of Beth's mother peered out over a dime-store security chain.

"Yes?" she said, her voice weak and suspicious.

Mark cleared his throat. "Mrs. Arvin, you may not remember me, but I'm Mark Morgan. I was one of Beth's first boyfriends."

The old woman stared at him questioningly until her grim expression finally softened. "Mark? Hmmm. I'm sorry, but it's been a long time." She glanced over her shoulder and called out into the darkened recesses of the house, "Ralph, come in here. One of Beth's friends stopped by." She unlatched the chain and swung the door open. "Come on in," she invited Mark.

We can't do it if you don't wear protection.

The living room was gloomy and not at all as he remembered. But then, he and Beth had spent as little time here as possible, preferring the privacy of his parents' home when they were away or the seclusion of a remote lovers' lane for their many lovemaking sessions.

"Please sit down," Mrs. Arvin offered, motioning toward the sofa. Mark hesitated, then finally sat. Floral arrangements decorated the mantel, clashing with the drab atmosphere of the otherwise dismal room. Unopened envelopes lay scattered on the coffee table before him.

Mr. Arvin hobbled into the room, impaired by a bad limp, and made no effort to shake hands or acknowledge Mark's presence. A faraway look controlled the elderly man's eyes.

Mark examined the saddened faces of Beth's parents as they stared back at him from a rocker and a straight-back chair near the fireplace. "I was at the funeral," he said softly. "I wanted to talk to you then, but it wasn't the right place. I wanted to see the house again, and remember the way she was." Mrs. Arvin sniffled; her husband hawked a hoa.r.s.e cough.

I need to date other guys. You're the only boyfriend I've ever had.

"It's all been . .. such a shock," she muttered.

Mark shifted on the sofa and exhaled deeply. "You lost her a couple of weeks ago, but for me it's been a lifetime," he said. "I've never hurt so badly in all my life as the day we broke up." Tears leaked from his eyes.

Mr. Arvin mumbled something incoherently as Mark continued. "She's never been far from my thoughts, though." He stopped to sniffle and clear his throat. "That's why I'm here. I want to know what I missed in her life after we broke up. She never confided in me. She didn't understand how much she meant to me." He paused for a deep breath. "If you don't mind, I'd like to see some photos, and swap stories about her with you. It could be sort of like a private memorial service, just between the three of us. One last tribute to her. I owe her at least that much."

Mrs. Arvin sniffled again. "Well..." she began, "it's only been a week since ... the funeral..."

"I understand," he whispered, a lingering moment of tension electrifying the atmosphere, "but I've got to pay homage to her in some way. After all we've been through, I think she'd expect it." Mr. Arvin finally stood and ambled feebly to his wife's side.

"We've got to face up to it, Evelyn," he said. "It don't do no good to hide our feelings." He reached toward a nearby bookcase and removed a photo alb.u.m, then laid it to rest atop the unopened envelopes on the coffee table in front of Mark. "She was our baby," he mumbled in a gruff voice. "Always will be."

Mark leaned over and flipped open the cover. Mrs. Arvin sat stiffly in her chair, finally muttering, "I can't look at the pictures yet. I'm just not ready."

But already selfishly engrossed in the photographs, Mark didn't hear her as he scanned the pages, observing the maturation of a woman with whom he'd always been so desperately in love. Yet these photos spanned a period of her life that began as many as ten or fifteen years after their breakup. "Do you have any photos when she was younger?" he asked.

Without a response Mr. Arvin returned to the bookcase and searched for an older, more worn photo alb.u.m. Mark tried not to show his excitement.

In the opening pages Beth was younger than when he'd first known her. In one faded photo she stood arm in arm with a friend at the beach, her bust not yet fully developed, but the features of her face becoming more like those of a young woman. He flipped ahead a couple of pages and stared face-to-face with the girl who had dominated his life from afar, whose memory had haunted him endlessly. He felt himself shiver, his reaction so intense.

Please don't call me anymore. I want you to leave me alone.

"She's in high school there," Mr. Arvin said, pointing to a picture at the top of the page. "That's the day she was tapped for the National Honor Society."

But Mark paid no attention, his eyes fixed instead on a photograph mounted at the lower corner of the adjacent page, a snapshot that actually included an image of himself as a teenager. It was a group picture at a family reunion he had long since forgotten. But there he was, in clear view, holding hands with Beth in the forefront, her brother and sister also accompanied by dates, with a stream of her relatives in the background.

"She was so beautiful," Mark mumbled with a hint of a sob, perspiration beading across his forehead, "but she never had a mind of her own. She let her friends affect her too much." Page by page he watched her mature, beyond high school and college graduation, through marriage and her childbearing years. "Her daughter is beautiful," Mark exclaimed as he examined a photo of a cute four-year-old in curls. "She has a lot of Beth's features."

Mr. Arvin cleared his throat. "Angie's in college now. She was the Homecoming Queen at Auburn last year."

A tinge of jealousy gripped Mark at the sight of a photo of Beth hugging her husband. "Angie doesn't resemble her father at all," he remarked as if he didn't know.

"Oh, that's not Angie's father." Mrs. Arvin finally spoke up from across the room. "Beth divorced Angie's dad. When she remarried, she wanted all the pictures of Charlie taken out."

Mark nodded, his hatred for the man in the photograph rekindled. A snarl registered in his expression as he scolded, "He should have known how dangerous it would be for Beth to drive those dark roads at night. He should've taken better care of her."

You've got to leave me alone! You need to get on with your life!

Mr. Arvin cleared his throat. "Well, now," he said, "we shouldn't be blaming Tom. He's suffered enough already."

"He didn't deserve her," Mark interrupted. "She could've done much better than him." A nervous tic twitched at his eyebrow.

Mark returned his attention to the family alb.u.m, watching the love of his life age before his eyes like a flower blossoming in a timed-exposure nature film. Her brown hair showed signs of gray in the more recent shots, but her figure remained trim as she aged. He witnessed a changing culture through variations of her hair length and clothing styles, and in some photos he imagined indications of stress in her face. "I never got over her," he sighed, more to himself than to her parents. "I got married, even had a kid, but I could never get Beth out of my system." Tears seeped more freely from his eyes. "I met her for lunch once, years ago, even followed her sometimes just to watch her shop at the mall. After my divorce I tried to see her again, but she wouldn't even talk to me. This son of a b.i.t.c.h changed her. He f.u.c.kin' ruined her."

"Oh, my," Mrs. Arvin said in reaction to Mark's vulgar language.

He flipped back to the earlier photographs, to the way Beth looked when they were involved. Scanning the years was riveting, the hold she'd had on him throughout his life intensified now by the sight of her in the photographs. Mark's skin began to itch and burn; his pulse quickened. He focused on a torn Polaroid snapshot that had been repaired with transparent tape, a close-up of Beth and her dog. Feeling as if he might burst with emotion, he swallowed hard. He felt hot; he swallowed again and tasted bile in his throat.

Please, Mark. When will this end? Don't you have a life of your own?

"I ran over her dog, you know," Mark confessed without a hint of remorse.

Mr. Arvin scratched his head. "Well, don't worry yourself about that now, son. It was a long time ago, and accidents like that happen all the time."

Mark looked up at Mrs. Arvin, a glazed expression on his face. "No, I mean intentionally. She never knew. It was a couple of weeks after we broke up. I wanted her to see how it feels to lose something you love, so I waited till the mutt ran out into the street and I flattened him."

Mark! Is that you? Help mea"please!

The elderly couple sat in stunned silence. Mark's grip on the photo alb.u.m tightened until pages began to tear loose from the binder's metal rings. Mrs. Arvin rose from her rocker and eased to her husband's side, a look of fear and anger scarring her already stressed face. Her hands shook noticeably.

His mouth dry, his forehead beaded with sweat, Mark saw Beth's ghostly image appear in a vacant chair across the room. She was wearing a miniskirt and crossing her legs, her luminous form teasing him, daring him to say more. "I was the first to f.u.c.k her, too," Mark blurted, watching for a reaction from a woman who wasn't even there. "She wasn't my first, but I was hers. And she loved to f.u.c.k. Once she wanted to f.u.c.k while we were parked outside the airport and I wouldn't do it, just to show her who was in control, and she begged mea""

"Please," Mrs. Arvin interrupted. "This is uncalled for. I think you should leave now."

Mark raised his head, a blank expression on his face, veins bulging from his neck. "But these are things you never knew about her, don't you see?"

"Son, we've heard enough already." Mr. Arvin finally spoke up more forcefully, but his voice still wavered. "You'd better go."

Mark didn't budge. "Can I have a couple of these pictures?" he asked.

"Of course not!" Mrs. Arvin interjected with a bitter tone. "Now, leave. Please."

No, Mark, don't. I'm hurt.

Mark stood, his temples pulsing like the throat of a frog. He reached deep into a pocket and pulled out a tear-shaped gold pendant, cl.u.s.ters of dried dirt spilling onto the floor from the movement. "I'll give you this," he pleaded. "I'll trade this for one picture."

Mrs. Arvin's eyes widened in horror. "Oh, my G.o.d!" she gasped. "Ralpha"it's the pendant Beth wore when she was buried!" Visibly shaken, she grabbed for the gold chain, but Mark thoughtlessly s.n.a.t.c.hed it away.

"You don't understand," he growled as he wiped his forehead. "She's lost her looks. I need to remember her like she was."

Mr. Arvin nudged him toward the door, but Mark stood his ground. "Get away from here, you maniac!" Mr. Arvin raved. "You've robbed my daughter's grave!" Then he turned to his wife and stuttered, "C-c-call the p-p-police."

Mark's nostrils flared. "Sure! Go ahead!" he yelled. "You probably made her dump me in the first place. You never liked me anyway." Again he stopped for a deep breath. "Call the f.u.c.kin' cops!" he howled. "You don't give a s.h.i.t about me." He stomped maddeningly around the room mumbling to himself, banging a knee hard against the coffee table without even reacting to the pain.

Mr. Arvin backed away, his eyes reflecting horror. Hyperventilating, Mark ripped several pages from the open photo alb.u.m, rolled them up, and stuffed them into his dirty pocket, the photo of Beth and her husband slipping free and falling to the floor. Mark leaned over to pick it up. "I hate this son of a b.i.t.c.h," he growled through gritted teeth. "She wouldn't leave him, so I took her the only way I knew how."

Mrs. Arvin squeezed against her husband's side.

Stop it, Mark. That hurts!

"It was no accident, you know," he admitted, the fear in their faces spurring him on. "I ran her off the road. There wasn't any traffic. Not a single car came by." His eyes widened; his cheeks tightened. "The son of a b.i.t.c.h shouldn't have built a house so far out in the woods."

"Oh, my G.o.d," Mr. Arvin moaned, a shudder in his voice. He clutched his chest and dropped to his knees as his wife cried hysterically at his side. The fear and revulsion in their faces reminded Mark of Beth's expression as she died, encouraging him to continue.

Don't, Mark. I'm hurt. I'm bleeding.