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couldn’t have been Bruce. Even drunk, he would not be psychotic. And Lattimer seemed a mild soul, but you never could tell.
    They would arrest him soon. Or someone. They’d have to.
    Clearing the dirty glasses from the sunporch, she tried not to think of what Sheila had told her. A torture death, savage and sexual. But for the grace of God, it might have been her own child.
    The thought of it made her ill. On her next trip upstairs she could not help checking, and feeling a deep, joyful satisfaction that they were safe. Adam slept soundly. Gail, in her room, was carefully stowing the dolls in their wardrobe case, clearing up from the havoc wreaked by Anita.
    Mary Ellen lay prone on the rug in her own room, apparently writing a letter, while her radio fuzzed and crackled on the dresser, playing two stations at once. Clothes were scattered everywhere, on the bed, the dresser, the doorknob. Mixed with them were fan magazines, record albums, and spilled bath powder.
    “Mary Ellen,” Joyce suggested, “why don’t you hang up your clothes so they don’t get wrinkled?”
    Mary Ellen tossed her a scornful look. “I don’t care if they get wrinkled.”
    “Well, okay, but your mother asked you to try and keep things tidy.”
    Mary Ellen muttered something that might have been an obscenity, and turned back to her letter. Joyce watched her for a moment, half expecting an apology or an explanation, but there was nothing. Slowly she withdrew. It had never been like this before. Mary Ellen had been sloppy, and at times impertinent, but never downright rude. Never—impossible.
    She tried to remind herself of the part of Mary Ellen that was Carl, not Barbara. Of the disrupted life the girl had led.
    I won’t confront her again, she decided. I’ll let him deal with it.
    When Carl came home, dinner was far from ready. He seemed in a buoyant mood and did not mind. “I’ll have my shower and a drink,” he said, opening his briefcase. “Did you see this?”
    It was the afternoon Post He folded back the pages. She caught a glimpse of a small headline, the words “Body” and “W’chstr,” meaning Westchester County.
    “I saw it in person,” she reminded him, “and I’m sick of it.”
    “You told me you didn’t see anything. Just some leaves. They said it was like Jack the Ripper. He tore out all her in—”
    “Carl, stop it! I really mean that. I’m sick.”
    He did stop then, and studied her. “Poor girl.” Just as he used to say when she had morning sickness.
    At least he cared. Larry had always told her it was all in her mind. Briefly she rested her head against his shoulder while he patted her back.
    “Mary Ellen’s here,” she said, withdrawing. “Don’t you want to see her?”
    His whole face changed—oddly, she thought, taking on a frown of uneasiness. “How is she?”
    “Just fine. Got stuff all over her room, been playing her radio all day.”
    “Is she behaving herself?”
    “Well—Barbara told her to clean up the room, and when I reminded her, she got kind of sassy. I guess I should expect it. It must be lonely for her, being shunted around like this.”
    “What did she do?”
    “Oh, just sassy.” Perhaps she shouldn’t have mentioned it. It might not have been an obscenity that Mary Ellen muttered, but it had certainly sounded like one.
    Carl started up the stairs. Barely a minute later, Mary Ellen’s voice came shrilly from her room. “I didn’t get fresh
    with her. Look, Daddy, I’m supposed to be on vacation. What do you want me to do, spend my whole summer being a slave?”
    Oh, damn, thought Joyce. Carl could be such a bulldozer at times. And why bring it up the very first thing?
    Through the general ruckus came a thin, rising wail. She hurried up the stairs.
    “Listen, Carl, you asked if Mary Ellen was behaving and I said she got a little sassy, but it wasn’t worth all this. And you just woke the baby.”
    He turned and glared at her. “Would you stay out of it,