It was Martha who sent her the newspaper clippings after it happened. The Chicago papers even had a write-up, on an inside page. They tried to make Paul out some kind of crazy hermit who avoided people and never went off the place without his gun. A man who thought somebody was out to get him. Well, she didn't know—maybe that was how it happened, maybe not. She had looked anxiously at the blurred newsprint, trying to find a picture of the man Paul had killed (in an argument over a line fence, if Martha had it right)—something to account for it all. He didn't look like Pa as far as she could see. But of course there might have been some turn of the head or tone of voice that threw Paul off center and stirred up the old hate and revenge.

Why else would he do it? Why would he kill a man he hardly knew, a man who never hurt him or anyone else?

She would never know.

I wish to God he could die, she thought. I wish I could die myself and get it over with.

Her feet were cold. She went to the closet and felt around among Erika's clothes, not wanting to turn on the light. A pair of jeans over her pajamas, a sweater, Erika's loden coat. Her own shoes were by the door where she had taken them off. She stood in the bedroom a moment, listening to Erika's breathing, before she found Erika's purse. She took a bill and wadded it into her pocket.

Then she shut the door quietly behind her. If Erika woke and missed her she would think she was in the bathroom. She went downstairs on tiptoe, stepping over the fourth step because it squeaked. She hesitated on the snowy porch. It was after three o'clock. There had been purse snatchings in the neighborhood and a couple of assault cases.

Oh hell, what difference did it make?

The air had that peculiar intensity of late night. The rings of greenish light under the street lamps only served to deepen the darkness between lights. Kate wiped her sweaty face on Erika's coat sleeve and set off in the direction of the all-night drugstore.

CHAPTER 13

“This is becoming monotonous," Erika said. She held a glass to Kate's mouth. "Rinse, don't swallow/'

"Oh jeezus."

"Are you dizzy?"

Kate considered. Her head ached, her face was hot, her skin felt as though ants were crawling under it. She knew just how she looked—flushed and lumpy. Nobody looks worse than a hung-over drunk, she thought irritably—they're only thin and tragic in the movies. Her bruised shoulder ached. She had fallen in the hall, trying to get back to bed—her own bed-after an attack of nausea. The thud roused Erika.

She had said, "I'm all right. Why don't you go to bed and get some sleep?"

Erika had smiled tiredly. "Come on. Back to bed."

There was no one in the hall. Twice they had waited silently while the Osgood boy rattled the knob and muttered, finally dragging his feet away. Erika wrapped an arm around her sagging room-mate and got her safely into the other bedroom. She locked the door and turned down the covers. Kate leaned against the door and watched her. "Look, I mean it. All I do is make trouble for you. Why don't you forget you ever saw me?"