sworn to them that I would always look after him. That I'd keep him

safe. But I broke my promise. No one ever punished me. No one ever

blamed me."

"But you did. Haven't you blamed yourself? Punished yourself?"

"If I hadn't run away-he called to me." For an instant it flashed into

her mind. The way his voice had raced after her as she'd fled down the

dark hall. "He was so scared, but I didn't go back to him. I knew they

were going to hurt him, but I ran. And he died. I should have stayed.

I was supposed to stay."

"Could you have helped him?"

"I ran because I was afraid for myself."

"You were a child, Emma."

What difference does that make? I made a promise. You don't break

promises to people you love, no matter how difficult they are to keep. I

made one to Drew, and I stayed because

"Because?"

"Because I deserved to be punished." She closed her eyes on a dull,

dreary horror. "Oh G.o.d. Did I stay all those months because I wanted

to be punished for losing Darren?"

Katherine allowed herself only the briefest moment of satisfaction. This

was exactly what she'd been hoping for. "I think that's part of it.

You've said before that Drew reminded you of Brian. You've blamed

yourself for Darren's death, and in a child's mind, punishment follows

guilt."

"I didn't know Drew was violent when I married him."

"No. You were attracted to what you saw on the surface. A beaut.i.til

young man with a beautiful voice. Romantic, charming. You chose

someone you thought was gentle and affectionate."

"I was wrong."

"Yes, you were wrong about Drew. He deceived you and many others.

Because he was so attractive, so loving on the outside, you became

convinced that you deserved what he did to you. He used your

vulnerability, exploited it and compounded it. You didn't ask to be

battered, Emma. And you weren't to blame for his sickness. Just as you

weren't to blame for your brother's death." She took Emma's hand. "I

believe when you accept that, completely, you'll remember the rest. Once

you remember, the nightmares will pa.s.s."

"I will remember," Emma murmured. "And I won't run this time."

THE LOFT Hm MRDLY CHMGED. Marianne had added a few of her own bizarre

touches. A full-sized blowup of G.o.dzilla, an enormous plastic palm tree

that was still decorated for Christmas though the January white sales

were in full swing, and a stuffed minah bird that swung on a perch in

front of the window. Her paintings dominated the walls, landscapes,

seascapes, portraits, and still-lifes. The studio smelled of paint,

turpentine, and Calvin Klein's Obsession.

Emma sat on a stool in a slash of sunlight wearing a sweatshirt that

drooped off one shoulder and the sapphire and diamond earrings her

father had given her for Christmas.

"You're not relaxed," Marianne complained as she stroked a pencil over

her pad.