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egregiously, startling somebody's dog down the street.
    "I appreciate your stopping by," Chris said. "I'll call Sergeant Lawson tomorrow and let you know what she says."
    MacNamara made it almost all the way out before he stopped. "You could do me one favor."
    "If you want to book Victor and Lester, you'll have to call them yourself. They do a great Good Cop-Bad Cop routine."
    Another scowl, this one a beauty. "I was wondering if you had a copy of Hell Hath No Fury I could borrow."
    "Chris!"
    "Chapter three!" Chris yelled over her shoulder, then turned back to her guest. "You don't want me to just tell you who did it? I happen to be in a good position to know."
    Maybe she was the only one who tended toward manic humor along about three in the morning. The chief was just looking tired. Chris noticed his hand stray not to his lip, but his temple to worry at the scar.
    "I've never read C. J. Turner," he admitted. "I thought I should at least be conversant with the subject."
    "You probably read nonfiction," Chris said. "And occupational magazines."
    "Nope."
    Chris waited a second for elaboration, but she just wasn't going to get it. Not one for self-exposure, the chief. "Well, I'm crushed that you've missed out on such a wonderful experience," she said, "but I'd be happy to rectify the omission. Hang on."
    C. J. Turner lived in the far corner of the balcony with volumes on forensics research, penal codes, first aid and toxicology, and a giant jar of jelly beans. Chris trotted up to C.J.'s corner and unearthed a box of books in the bottom cabinet.
    "Hell Hath No Fury," she announced, returning to hand it off to the still-bemused policeman. "The story of what finally happens when a long-suffering wife is pushed too far. I'm really sorry if this is the murder they're talking about. It wasn't one of my tidier ones."
    The chief looked down at the stylized dust jacket, a geometric pattern in fuscia, blue, and black. "I'll let you know how I like it," he said, lifting it a bit in final salutation.
    Chris finally managed to get him outside. The house was fifteen degrees cooler, and she was in shorts. And God only knew who else was waiting out there to knock on her door in search of some kind of help.
    Injured puppies, she thought suddenly. I collect bruised people like some people pick up injured puppies. A gift. A curse. One of these nights, she just wasn't going to answer the door.
    "Good night, Chief."
    He nodded one last time as he climbed into his cruiser. "Good night, Miss Jackson."
    Out of long habit, Chris waited until he got his car started before turning away. Once she did, though, she just stood there a moment, head now throbbing steadily, the soda her only nourishment since about lunchtime. She looked toward the bathroom and considered what lay inside. Considered what lurked in the corners of her very deliberately renovated house. Considered the fictitious mayhem she would be much happier escaping into than the misery that waited on the .other side of that door, or, for that matter, the other side of the dawn.
    "Come on out," she called and then sighed. She might as well get it over with so she could go back to work. After all, it was a cinch she wasn't going to get any sleep tonight, either. Climbing back up into her loft, Chris collected the stuffed bear who shared her work chair with her and nestled it tight against her chest before heading back to face Shelly.

 
     
     
    Chapter 3

     
    She was crouched in the comer of the bathroom, huddled against the safety of the cool tile wall, curled so tightly into herself that maybe she couldn't see what her life had become. So she couldn't see in the mirror what she'd become, so long beaten down, so pummeled by fists and feet and words that she wasn't recognizable anymore. He'd find her. He always would. He'd beat her so badly she couldn't leave the house for a week, then beg her forgiveness.
    And like every other time, she'd give it ...
    Slipping a marker in the book, Mac shut