“Get in, Prescott,” she said in a tough, side-of-the-mouth voice, “or it won’t be pretty!”

A grin broke through the despair in Mitch’s face, though just briefly, and he slid into the tub. Shay kicked off her shoes, and then stripped completely, enjoying the amazement in his eyes.

She stepped into the tub, standing behind Mitch, working the awesome tension from his shoulders with her fingers. “Talk to me, Mitch.”

Haltingly, he began to tell her about his interviews with Alan Roget. Shay had read about Roget, knew that he was a vicious killer with a penchant for calling attention to himself. She listened staunchly as Mitch poured out the ugly, inhumane things he’d be expected to write about.

When Mitch turned to her, there were tears on his beardstubbled cheeks. Shay held him, her hands moving gently up and down his heaving back, her tears flowing as freely as his.

“How can I write about this bastard?” he demanded once, in raspy horror. “It makes me sick just to think about him!”

Shay caught Mitch’s strong face in her hands and held it firmly. “You have to write about him, Mitch, because there are a lot of other psychos out there and if one woman recognizes the type and stays alive because of it—just one woman, Mitch—it will be worth all the pain!”

“I can’t do it!” Mitch roared, and then a grating sob tore itself from the depths of him. He shuddered in Shay’s arms. “Dammit, I can’t do it anymore!”

“Yes you can, Mitch. I’ll help you.”

He drew back from her, studying her face with those tormented, fatigue-shadowed eyes. “You’ll what?”

“I know you don’t want a relationship with me,” Shay said, wondering where she’d found the strength to admit to something that had been impossible to face only an hour before. “So there won’t be any strings attached.”

“Strings?”

“I love you, Mitch, regardless of how you feel about me. Tonight, I’m going to drag you back from everything that’s ugly and base if I have to drive you out of your mind to do it.”

She held her breath and plunged under the water to pull the plug, and the water began to drain away, but neither she nor Mitch made any move to climb out of the tub. “Your therapy begins right now,” Shay said.

Because of Shay, and only because of Shay, Mitch was able to fly back to Joliet for one final interview with Roget and then to return home and write about the man. It was hell, and he swore he’d never tackle a project like it again, but by Thanksgiving he’d roughed out the skeleton of a first draft.

Shay sat on her sofa with her feet tucked underneath her, reading the last chapter. The scent of the turkey Alice had cooked still hung in the air, mingling with the spicy aroma of the pumpkin pie that would be served later. Mitch tried not to watch Shay’s every expression as she read, but his eyes strayed in her direction at regular intervals.