This brought a smile to her face. It was a Pavlovian response; he hadn’t even heard of Pavlov back then, but later he would come to understand the dynamic between them, though never completely, and never at its deepest level. He was too close to her, the experiences too subjective for rational dissection. And, of course, there was a part of him that refused to look at what would happen next.

“Luther,” she whispered, “what have you done?”

She knew! But then she always knew. “There was someone in the crowd,” he said. “A lost woman coming to you to help her find God. I snuck out and watched her.”

“She was a wanton woman.”

“Yes.”

“The sight of her drew you.”

“Yes.”

His mother’s eye were upon him. “She was evil, and you were evil, Luther.”

“She was, Mother. And I was.”

His mother’s dark eyes seemed to grow in size, to become luminous, like the moon gleaming in the sun’s reflected light. “You need to be punished, Luther.”

“Yes, Mother. I do.”

Chapter 26

26

“What is this?” Julie picked up a black latex hood. It came down over the face. Two small holes had been punched for the nostrils; above and below were zippers where the eyes and mouth would be. Up high on the forehead were two protrusions that Julie took to be horns.

“The hood?”

Julie nodded. “That, and what was underneath it.”

“The SIG Sauer. I have a permit. In my line of work you can’t be too careful. The cops didn’t disagree.”

“I hate guns.” Julie shuddered. “Any guns.”

“Then don’t go near it, and for god’s sake don’t touch it.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t.”

“Good girl.” Sydny nodded. “Now back to the mask.” She was still holding the bustier and tap pants. “Do you find it interesting?”

“I find it frightening. What are these horns for?”

“Those are for another evening. You’re only a beginner here.”

Julie shook her head. “It’s nightmarish.”

Sydny smiled a secret smile, so that Julie felt compelled to say, “What?”

Sydny stepped out of the closet, drew the drapes over the windows, effectively sealing them off from the outside world. “Do you know Story of O?”

“Should I?”

“It’s a novel—a great one, a groundbreaking story—written by Pauline Réage, a writer who up until the novel’s publication no one had heard of. In fact, for many years it was assumed by critics and intellectuals—mostly men—that Pauline Réage was a pseudonym for a man, because only a man could write about such sexual debauchery. Of course, they were proven wrong. The writer was a woman named Anne Cécile Desclos.”