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had to hopscotch over dog beds as big as barges. His kitchen walls were covered with dog-show ribbons.
    He ruffled the fur on Grace’s forehead so it looked like a rooster comb. “Come on, Grace. Let’s go. You shouldn’t stay where you’re not wanted.” Adam stood and gently slipped his fingers through her bandana. Without saying goodbye, he led her away.
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    The next morning before Cristina drove Rosie down the hill to kindergarten, she brought Lila the Herald . With hungry eyes, she skimmed the front-page headlines—mostly about mayhem in the Middle East and scrapping in Congress—and she combed the news section.
    She was looking for an article about Yuri Makov or anyone else who had gone postal and who might help her understand him. But the only story that came close to workplace violence was two paragraphs on the last page, about an armed robbery in a San Francisco grocery store. The Korean owner had come around the counter and grabbed the criminal—about five-six, in a black ski mask and blue fleece hoodie. He’d shot the owner in the thigh, and so far the police had no suspects. At least Lila was lucky to know who’d shot her, but the article brought her no closer to learning why Yuri had done it.
    She looked through the Herald ’s entertainment and business sections and found nothing related to going postal there. Disappointed, she folded the paper and pressed the crease along the middle extra-hard. Once she got back to her apartment, she could search the Internet for information about Yuri Makov, and she wouldn’t have to dodge Cristina always insisting, “He was nuts! Let it go!” If Lila mentioned his name more than twice a day, Cristina lectured her about obsessing and said, “Get some more redwood therapy.”
    Except for the grandfather clock’s chimes in the living room and a distant whoosh of a street sweeper down the mountain, the house was silent. Ever since Adam Spencer had frightened Lila, she listened for footsteps. Cristina’s house was across a wooded gulley from the nearest neighbor, and Lila could yell for help till she was hoarse—and no one would hear. She wrapped her good arm around herself, but it was paltry protection. Two weeks ago, she’d have said the only thing that frightened her was large, erratic dogs, but after Yuri Makov, nothing seemed secure.

6
    W ithout Cristina’s feminine touches, Greg’s den would have looked like a Victorian lawyer’s office. He had an antique partner’s desk, a wall of leather-bound books, a dark green leather wingback chair and sofa, and a painting of a ship cutting through the froth of a stormy sea. Cristina had added peace lilies, poodle statues, needlepoint pillows, and a wild-goose-chase-pattern quilt, under which Lila was curled up on the sofa. Today was her first time out of the guest bedroom and bath since coming here. The change of scene freed her.
    That morning Cristina had cut the sleeve of Greg’s oldest flannel shirt and guided Lila’s cast through, then buttoned her up and helped her into a pair of jeans. Though Lila had resisted the assistance, she had to accept it until she could manage buttons and zippers with only her right hand. Just as she’d learned to tie her shoes as a child, she’d have to conquer simple tasks—changing her chest bandage, squeezing toothpaste onto her brush, pulling a nightgown over her head, showering with her left arm in a plastic bag, washing and drying her hair. Sometimes the list seemed daunting.
    Still, Lila felt better being up. Though the shirt and jeans were frumpy, sitting, dressed, in Greg’s den helped her feel less like someone who’d been shot and more like a normal person. The only drawback to being in the den was Grace, sprawled on a pillow across the room. She looked like she’d been poured there, a gold puddle of a dog. Though she pretended to sleep, occasionally she opened