After we hung up, I sat and thought about what he’d said. I knew he was right. I’d already had my tires slashed and that was before the car was unearthed and the bodies had been found. I unlocked the cabinet where I’d been keeping my handguns. I owned three. My favorite, a little.32-caliber semiautomatic my aunt Gin had given me as a kid, had been vaporized in an explosion that was meant to kill me. The next gun I acquired was a.32-caliber Davis that I bought because I liked the looks, thus opening myself to scorn and derision from all the gun nuts who considered it inferior. In deference to them, I bought an H amp;K P7 and an H amp;K P13, both serious weapons. The P13 was really more gun than I could comfortably handle, so I put it back in the cabinet with the Davis. I took out the box of Winchester Silvertips, loaded the P7, and put it in my shoulder bag.

I was now technically prepared, but far from feeling reassured, I was just flat scared.

I spent Sunday morning typing up my notes. After lunch I drove over to the office and sorted through the mail that was piled on the floor. The mailman had stuck so many envelopes through the slot that they’d spread out across the carpet like a welcome mat. I sorted through the bills and then had no choice but to sit down and write checks. I listened to my messages, which were surprisingly few; none required my immediate attention. On the way home I went by the post office and dropped my paid bills in the box at the curb. I spent the rest of the day cleaning my apartment-good therapy for those of us who cherish solitude. Scrubbing toilet bowls, you’re hardly ever troubled by others eager to pitch in.