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moving quick and confident, refusing to look at her poor dog or the stake that was meant for her. The police, after checking out her house, had closed the patio door. An officer on her case had volunteered to hang around her house until she came home, and Joan kicked herself for refusing the offer.
    She figured she had Max, and the cop had been too good looking.
    Now, apprehension mounting, she wondered how she was going to get inside. Break her own window?
    No need. The patio door was unlocked. Joan went into the kitchen, turning on lights as she went, and found her purse on the floor where she’d dropped it. After digging out her wallet, she walked out the front door and paid the taxi driver. The cab turned around in her circular driveway, and Joan watched the tail lights disappear down the hill. She felt very alone.
    Back to the house. The front door knob was covered with white powder. The police had determined this was the entry point, and had gone ahead and checked for prints even though she made it clear that the man wore gloves. Joan didn’t know if she should admire them for the effort, or be irritated that they didn’t believe her.
    Once inside, Joan turned on her large screen television and changed the channel to CNN, grateful for the nonstop voices. She flipped on more lights, checked to make sure the doors and windows were all locked, and threw away her toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, soap, and shampoo. Anything he might have touched. Then she emptied her underwear drawer into the washing machine, her silverware drawer into the dishwasher, and started each of them on the highest heat setting.

    She had an urge to vacuum, to scrub the bathtub and drain the Jacuzzi, but exhaustion was getting the upper hand. Her last effort to cleanse the house was changing her sheets, and then she kicked off her gym shoes and collapsed onto the bed.
    Joan was able to relax for almost a full minute before paranoia reared its head. She picked up the phone and found it still disconnected. Her cell was in her car. Sleep would be impossible unless there was a phone next to her. Joan got out of bed.
    She was padding through the living room when she saw the front door open. The scream was out of her mouth before he got into the room.
    “Hello, Joan. Miss me?”
    Same goatee. Same black outfit. Same gloves. He had some kind of metal device in his right hand. Lock picks. Joan willed herself to move, to run, to attack—anything but remain planted there like a deer in headlights. She took off toward the kitchen and went straight for the knife rack. With a steak knife in each hand, she turned around to face her tormentor.
    He was standing in the kitchen, regarding her calmly.
    “I knew you’d be a fighter. Perhaps I should burn you at the stake rather than impale you on one.”
    “Get away from me.”
    “Sorry. Can’t do that, Joan.”
    “What the hell did I ever do to you?” Joan’s voice came out steeped in desperation. She was close to cracking.
    “To me? Nothing. The English may feel differently.”
    The guy was off his nut. That was good. She dealt with crazy people all the time in the business. She could handle crazy.
    Joan moved her left foot, widening her stance. She assumed a defensive position, each hand holding its knife in a death grip. If he took another step forward, she’d try an attack. Keep him talking, don’t telegraph it.
    “You’re crazy.”
    “I know about the tattoo. I know about the adoption. I know who your parents really are. Don’t you wonder how I know all of that?”
    With an easy, deliberate move, he took a bottle and a rag out of his left pocket. Something to knock her out while he dropped her on that sharp piece of wood.
    Not in this lifetime.
    Joan lunged. The man was nimble, trained. He dropped to one knee and trapped her wrist in his armpit, then lifted up his forearm to block the other knife.
    But Joan didn’t attack with the other knife. She went straight for the crotch, bringing her