'Shhh,' a warm voice said. 'It's just me. Everything's okay.'

Sam was kneeling beside the couch, stroking his hair, looking down into him as though he were a pool. She smiled sadly.

'Wha—' He cleared his throat. 'What time is it?'

'Five thirty or so,' Sam replied. 'What time did you fall asleep?'

'Dunno,' Thomas croaked, rubbing his face. He rolled onto his back. 'Oh-oh,' he said sheepishly. 'Everything's fucked up. Truly fucked up.'

'How so?'

'Piss hard-on first thing in the evening… See?'

She laughed and reached down, grabbed him through his Dockers.

'This is all wrong,' she said.

'Well, you're the FBI agent.'

'So?'

'So that's your job isn't it? Righting wrongs…'

They undressed, and she straddled him. Their love-making was tender in the way of weary people, excitement mellowed by familiarity, each movement for its own sake, each touch void of self-consciousness, the way bone-tired museum goers might trail their hands across ivory or diorite—not to get closer, not even to feel, but simply to confirm.

Then she began murmuring, 'That's it,' over and over, 'That's it, mmm,' as though he were a son uncertain of a long and frightening task. For some reason, this both angered and impassioned him. He began lunging harder, faster, until she gasped, 'Ugh… Not so deep, please Tom…'

He clutched her about the waist and sitting up, leaned and swept everything from the coffee table. He hoisted her from the couch and slammed her across it.

'Tom?' she cried.

But he was fucking her now, making her whimper and writhe around pounding iron. When she started crying out he clamped a hand across her mouth, rammed into her again and again.

Then she was slapping and clawing. He withdrew. He gripped the coffee table and dumped it. She flopped scrambling onto the floor.

'Why aren't you wearing your underwear?' Frankie asked.

'NEIL!' Thomas shrieked. 'NEIL!'

Then he fell to his hands and knees, crumpled into the carpet, sobbing.

'I was always just a project for Tommy, I think…'

Sam curled on the recliner, wearing her blouse and panties. With swollen eyes, she studied the Scotch Thomas had given her. She wiped her tears away with her thumb.

'I've been hate-fucked before,' she said, 'but that was just too creepy.'

Thomas sat naked at the edge of the couch, elbows on knees, head hanging.

She looked at him, at once angry and indecisive. 'Just what are you doing, Tom?'

'I don't know,' he whispered.

'Don't know?' Sam exclaimed.' You don't know?'

'That's what I said.'

'But you're the fucking psychology professor, aren't you?'

He looked at her angrily. 'Heal thyself? Is that it?' He huddled against another shiver.

'Tom…'