“Bea, eat your ice cream.” I was never stern with Beatrice, and she heard it in my voice and did what I said. Sage and I had measured Valley Forge to Pottstown on the map. It was about twenty miles, not a hundred like Marie had said. The mall was under six miles from the ARCO station. Was twenty-six miles a bit far to go for a mall? Why was he here?

The waitress was talking to Barbie Man and the guy with him. She was writing their check. “You look like you’ve been through the wringer,” she said.

“Yeah, his plastic surgeon’s on vacation.” Barbie Man said it, pretending she’d spoken to the other guy. His voice rasped, a gravelly sound, as if he smoked four packs a day. They all laughed like he was funny.

The waitress put the check on the table. “I’ll come back when you’re ready.”

Ellen was listening, too. I knew she was trying to understand what was being discussed. She must have seen the bruises. We didn’t move in our booth.

I watched them each put money on the table and stand up, and I felt vomit rise in my throat. He was a giant. At least as tall as Evi van der Graff’s dad, and he was supposed to be six-five. He had on a black leather vest over a white T-shirt, a thick black belt, blue jeans, and black boots. A sling was draped over one shoulder, holding his left arm in a cast. They’d broken his arm. I felt a quick surge of panic. The other man looked ordinary and middle-aged, a bit like Mr. Walker. We stayed sitting in our booth. I watched them leave while Beatrice ate her ice cream, and Ellen looked at the table. We sat until the waitress came with our check. I left the money and a tip. Neither Ellen nor I had finished.

“We’re going to use the bathroom now,” I said.

“I don’t have to go,” said Beatrice.

“The rule is we go together.” We went to the back of the restaurant, and I stayed outside by the phones, where I could keep an eye on the restroom door. “Go inside,” I said. “I’ll be right there.”

I dropped in coins and dialed.

“Hello. Directory services.”

“Can I have the number for Rage Records on Third in Philadelphia? It’s a record store.”

“Would you like to be connected?” asked the operator.

“Yes, please.”

I waited. The phone rang twice, and Marie picked up and practically sang, “Rage Records on Third.” When I heard her voice, I started to cry.

“He’s here, Marie.”

“Libby? Is that you? Who’s there?”

“Barbie Man.”

“Where? At the house?”

“No, here. The mall.”