She touched the fringe the way Robby had touched the stereo components, gently, like someone petting a friend’s show dog. God, it was beautiful. She’d never seen anything so beautiful.

From the doorway, Robby said, “Take it. I don’t need it.”

When Velvet turned around, jacket clutched tight in her arms, Robby wasn’t there. She listened, but she didn’t hear any footsteps.

Another fingernail split as she fought the buttons of her flannel shirt, the tight zipper on the pants. She kicked the dirty clothes off to mix with the clean ones she’d thrown out of the closet, and slowly, so slowly, slid the skirt up over her hips.

The zipper sounded like a whisper. The fit was perfect. Velvet kept her black front-close bra and slid the jacket over it, silk lining cool on her skin and warming up, leather a thick soft cushion around her.

In the corner she found her black patent leather fuck-me pumps, only a little scuffed at the heels. She stood in front of the mirror on the closet door and turned slowly, unsteadily, watching the leather gleam.

“God,” she said reverently. It was as close as she’d gotten to a prayer in years.

The doorbell rang; she lost her balance on the high heels and sat down on the bed hard enough to make the springs squeak. The room lurched into spin dry.

God, it was Sol, come to beat her up again—or worse, it was those assholes from the dry cleaners—or—

Robby ran by the door, backtracked and traded a look with her.

“Stay here,” she said, and swung the door shut. Velvet clutched handfuls of neon blue comforter and waited, eyes shut, while the room dipped and danced.

She didn’t hear anything from the hall, not even the locks clicking back. She’d hear something, wouldn’t she, if somebody broke in? If they started kicking the shit out of—

Wouldn’t she? Oh, God. If they did, what would she do? No back way out, no place to hide, nothing to fight with. Oh, God. She was suddenly convinced that she would throw up, and looked frantically around for a trash can, a plastic bag, anything. There was a trash can across the room, but that was ten steps, at least.

She covered her mouth with her hands and bent over to put her head between her legs.

Two, maybe three breaths later, she heard the bed-room door open, and a man’s voice said, “Are you okay?”

She looked up with both hands still wrapped around her mouth.

It was Paolo. He had a gun.

She passed out.