Malice

When the past is your enemy,

all you have is the present…MALICE

PRAISE FOR

DANIELLE STEEL“STEEL IS ONE OF THE BEST!”—Los Angeles Times“THE PLOTS OF DANIELLE STEEL'S NOVELS

TWIST AND WEAVE AS INCREDIBLE STORIES

UNFOLD TO THE GLEE AND DELIGHT OF HER

ENORMOUS READING PUBLIC.”—United Press International“Ms. Steel's fans won't be disappointed!”—The New York Times Book Review“Steel writes convincingly about universal

human emotions.”—Publishers Weekly“One of the world's most popular authors.”—The Baton Rouge Sun“FEW MODERN WRITERS CONVEY THE PATHOS

OF FAMILY AND MARITAL LIFE WITH SUCH

HEARTFELT EMPATHY.”—The Philadelphia Inquirer

PRAISE FOR

DANIELLE STEEL'S

MALICE“STEEL ONCE AGAIN HITS HER STRIDE …

DANIELLE STEEL FANS WILL LOVE

THIS LATEST ENTRY.”—Rocky Mountain News“It's nothing short of amazing that, even after

three dozen novels, Danielle Steel can still come up

with a good new yarn.”—The Newark Star-Ledger“THIS IS MORE THAN SUPERB FICTION …

revealing both the stark reality of domestic abuse and the healing power of love.”—Camden County Tribune (Ga.)“A GOOD READ … [Steel] can still touch

the emotions and involve the reader like

few others can.”—Warner Robins Herald (Ga.)“With rare insight and power, Danielle Steel writes

[an] extraordinary woman's story.”—Clarksburg Exponent-Telegram (W. Va.)“Steel, with deep insight, has written

a compelling novel.”—Tryon Bulletin (N.C.)A MAIN SELECTION OF

THE LITERARY GUILD

AND

THE DOUBLEDAY BOOK CLUB

Also by Danielle Steel

To my extraordinary, loving,

and very remarkable children,

Beatrix, Trevor, Todd,

Nick, Samantha, Victoria,

Vanessa, Maxx, and Zara.

You make my life worth living,

you are all that has made

my life worthwhile.

You are my life and my heart.

With all my thanks and love,

and apologies for the pain

I may have brought you

with this wicked thing

called “Tame.”

I love you so very, very much,

d.s.

Chapter 1

The sounds of the organ music drifted up to the Wedgwood blue sky. Birds sang in the trees, and in the distance, a child called out to a friend on a lazy summer morning. The voices inside the church rose in powerful unison, as they sang the familiar hymns that Grace had sung with her family since childhood. But this morning, she couldn't sing anything. She could barely move, as she stood, staring straight ahead at her mother's casket.

Everyone knew Ellen Adams had been a good mother, a good wife, a respected citizen until she died. She had taught school before Grace was born, and she would have liked to have had more children, but it just hadn't happened. Her health had always been frail, and at thirty-eight she had gotten cancer. The cancer started in her uterus, and after a hysterectomy, she'd had both chemotherapy and radiation. But the cancer spread to her lungs anyway, and her lymph nodes, and eventually her bones. It had been a four-and-a-half-year battle. And now, at forty-two, she was gone.

She had died at home, and Grace had taken care of her single-handedly until the last two months when her father had finally had to hire two nurses to help her. But Grace still sat next to her bedside for hours when she came home from school. And at night, it was Grace who went to her when she called out in pain, helped her turn, carried her to the bathroom, or gave her medication. The nurses only worked in the daytime. Her father didn't want them there at night, and everyone realized he had a hard time accepting just how sick his wife was. And now he stood in the pew next to Grace and cried like a baby.

John Adams was a handsome man. He was forty-six, and one of the best attorneys in Watseka, and surely the most loved. He had studied at the University of Illinois after serving in the Second World War, and then came home to Watseka, a hundred miles south of Chicago. It was a small, immaculately kept town, filled with profoundly decent people. And he handled all their legal needs, and listened to all their problems. He went through their divorces with them, or battles over property, bringing peace to warring members of families. He was always fair, and everyone liked him for it. He handled personal injury, and claims against the State, he wrote wills, and helped with adoptions. Other than the town's most popular medical practitioner, who was a friend of his too, John Adams was one of the most loved and respected men in Watseka.

John Adams had been the town's football star as a young man, and he had gone on to play in college. Even as a boy, people had been crazy about him. His parents had died in a car accident when he was sixteen, and his grandparents had all died years before that, and families literally argued over who was going to invite him to live with them until he finished high school. He was always such a nice guy and so helpful. In the end, he had stayed with two different families, and both of them loved him dearly.

He knew practically everyone in town by name, and there were more than a few divorcees and young widows who had had an eye on him ever since Ellen had been so sick in the last few years. But he never gave them the time of day, except to be friendly, or ask about their kids. He had never had a roving eye, which was another nice thing people always said about him. “And Lord knows he has a right to,” one of the older men who knew him well always said, “with Ellen so sick and all, you'd think he would start to look around … but not John … he's a right decent husband.” He was decent and kind, and fair, and successful. The cases he handled were small, but he had an amazing number of clients. And even his law partner, Frank Wills, teased him occasionally, wanting to know why everyone asked for John, before they'd ask for Frank. He was everyone's favorite.

“What do you do, offer them free groceries for a year behind my back?” Frank always teased. He wasn't the lawyer John was, but he was a good researcher, and good with contracts, with minute attention to detail. It was Frank who went over all the contracts with a fine-tooth comb. But it was always John who got all the glory, whom they asked for when they called, whom clients had heard about from miles away in other towns. Frank was an unimpressive little man, without John's charm or good looks, but they worked well together and had known each other since college. Frank stood several rows back in the church now, feeling sorry for John, and his daughter.

John would be all right, Frank knew, he'd land on his feet, just like he always did, and although he insisted now that he wasn't interested, Frank was betting that his partner would be remarried in a year. But it was Grace who looked absolutely distraught, and shattered, as she stared straight ahead at the banks of flowers at the altar. She was a pretty girl, or she would have been, if she'd allowed herself to be. At seventeen, she was lean and tall, with graceful shoulders and long thin arms, beautiful long legs, and a tiny waist and full bust. But she always hid her figure in baggy clothes, and long loose sweaters she bought at the Salvation Army. John Adams was by no means a rich man, but he could have bought her better than that, if she'd wanted. But unlike other girls her age, Grace had no interest in clothes, or boys, and if anything, she seemed to diminish her looks, rather than enhance them. She wore no makeup at all, and she wore her long coppery auburn hair straight down her back, with long bangs that hid her big cornflower-blue eyes. She never seemed to look straight at anyone, or be inclined to engage them in conversation. Most people were surprised by how pretty she was, if they really looked at her, but if you didn't look twice, you never noticed her at all. Even today, she was wearing an old dreary black dress of her mother's. It hung like a sack on her, and she looked thirty years old, with her hair tied back in a tight bun, and her face deathly pale as she stood beside her father.

“Poor kid,” Frank's secretary whispered, as Grace walked slowly back down the aisle, next to her father, behind her mother's casket. Poor John … poor Ellen … poor people. They'd been through so much.

People commented from time to time on how shy Grace was, and how uncommunicative. There had been a rumor a few years back that she might even be retarded, but anyone who had ever gone to school with her knew that that was a lie. She was brighter than most of them, she just didn't say much. She was a solitary soul, and it was only once in a while that someone in school would see her talking to someone, or laughing in a corridor, but then she would hurry away again, as though she was frightened to come out and be among them. She wasn't crazy, her classmates knew, but she wasn't friendly either. It was odd too, considering how sociable her parents were. But Grace never had been. Even as a small child, she had always been solitary, and somewhat lonely. And more than once as a child, she had had to go home from school with a bad attack of asthma.

John and Grace stood out in the noon sun for a little while, shaking hands with friends, thanking them for being there, embracing them, and more than ever, Grace looked wooden and removed as she greeted them. It was as though her body was there, but her mind and soul were elsewhere. And in her dreary too-big dress, she looked more pathetic than ever.

Her father commented on the way she looked on the way to the cemetery. Even her shoes looked worn. She had taken a pair of her mother's black high heels, but they were out of style, and they looked as though her mother had gotten plenty of use from them before she got sick. It was almost as though Grace wanted to be closer to her now, by wearing her mother's clothes, it was like camouflage, or protective coloring, but it wasn't flattering on a girl her age, and her father said so. She looked a lot like her mother, actually, people always commented on it, except that her mother had been more robust before she'd been taken ill, and her dress was at least three sizes too big for Grace's lithe figure.

“Couldn't you have worn something decent for a change?” her father asked with a look of irritation as they drove to St. Mary's Cemetery on the outskirts of town, with three-dozen cars behind them. He was a respected man, and he had a reputation to uphold. It looked strange for a man like him to have an only child who dressed like an orphan.

“Mama never let me wear black. And I thought … I thought I should …” She looked at him de-fenselessly, sitting miserably in the corner of the old limousine the funeral home had provided for the occasion. It was a Cadillac, and some of the kids had rented it for the senior prom two months before, but Grace hadn't wanted to go, and no one had asked her. With her mother so sick, she had barely even wanted to go to graduation. But she had, of course, and she had shown her mother the diploma as soon as she got home. She had been accepted at the University of Illinois, but had deferred it for a year, so she could continue taking care of her mother. Her father wanted it that way too, he felt that Ellen preferred Grace's loving touch to that of her nurses, and he had pretty much told Grace that he expected her to stay, and not leave for school in September. She hadn't argued with him. She knew there was no point. There was never any point arguing with him. He always got what he wanted. He was used to it. He had been too good-looking and too successful for too long, it had always worked for him, and he expected things to stay that way. Always. Particularly with his own family. Grace understood that. And so had Ellen.

“Is everything ready at the house?” he asked, glancing at her, and she nodded. For all her shyness and reticence, she ran a home beautifully, and had since she was thirteen. In the past four years, she had done everything for her mother.

“It's fine,” she said quietly. She had set everything out on the buffet before they left for church. And the rest was covered, on big platters in the refrigerator. People had been bringing them food for days. And Grace had cooked a turkey and a roast the night before. Mrs. Johnson had brought them a ham, and there were salads, and casseroles, some sausages, two plates of hors d'oeuvres, and lots of fresh vegetables, and every imaginable kind of cake and pastry. Their kitchen looked like a bake sale at the state fair, there was plenty for everyone. She was sure that they were going to be seeing well over a hundred people, maybe even twice that many, out of respect for John and what he meant to the people of Watseka.

People's kindness had been staggering. The sheer number of floral arrangements alone had surpassed anything they'd ever seen at the funeral home. “It's like royalty,” old Mr. Peabody had said when he handed the guest book full of signatures to her father.

“She was a rare woman,” John said quietly, and now, thinking of her, he glanced over at his daughter. She was such a beautiful girl, and so determined not to show it. That was just the way she was, he accepted it, and it was easier not to argue about it. She was good about other things, and she had been a godsend for him during all the years of her mother's illness. It was going to be strange for both of them now, but in a way, he had to admit, it was going to be easier now too. Ellen had been so sick for so long, and in so much pain, it was inhuman.

He looked out the window as they drove along, and then back at his only daughter. “I was just thinking about how odd it's going to be now without your mama … but maybe …” He wasn't sure how to say it without upsetting her more than he meant to,“… maybe easier for both of us. She suffered so much, poor thing,” he sighed, and Grace said nothing. She knew her mother's suffering better than anyone, better even than he did.

The ceremony at the cemetery was brief, their minister said a few words about Ellen and her family, and read from Proverbs and Psalms at the graveside, and then they all drove back to the Adamses’ home. A crowd of a hundred and fifty friends squeezed into the small neat house. It was painted white, with dark green shutters and a picket fence. There were daisy bushes in the front yard, and a small rose garden her mother had loved just outside her kitchen windows.

The babble of their friends sounded almost like a cocktail party, and Frank Wills held court in the living room, while John stood outside with friends in the hot July sunshine. Grace served lemonade and iced tea, and her father had brought out some wine, and even the huge crowd scarcely made a dent in all the food she served. It was four o'clock when the last guests finally left, and Grace walked around the house with a tray, picking up all their dishes.

“We've got good friends,” her father said with a warm smile. He was proud of the people who cared about them. He had done a lot for many of them over the years, and now they were there, in their hour of need, for him, and his daughter. He watched Grace moving quietly around the living room, and he realized how alone they were now. Ellen was gone, the nurses were gone, there was no one left except just the two of them. Yet he was not a man to dwell on his misfortunes.

“I'll go outside and see if there are any glasses out there,” he said helpfully, and he came back half an hour later with a trayful of plates and glasses, his jacket over his arm, and his tie loosened. If she'd been aware of such things, she would have seen that her father looked more handsome than ever. Others had noticed it. He had lost some weight in the last few weeks, understandably, and he looked as trim as a young man, and in the sunlight it was difficult to see if his hair was gray or sandy. In fact, it was both, and his eyes were the same bright blue as his daughter's.

“You must be tired,” he said to her, and she shrugged as she loaded glasses and plates into the dishwasher. There was a lump in her throat and she was trying not to cry. It had been an awful day for her … an awful year … an awful four years. … Sometimes she wished she could disappear into a little puddle of water. But she knew she couldn't. There was always another day, another year, another duty to perform. She wished that they had buried her that day, instead of her mother. And as she stared unhappily at the dirty plates she was loading mechanically into the racks, she felt her father standing beside her. “Want some help?”

“I'm okay,” she said softly. “Do you want dinner, Dad?”

“I don't think I could eat another thing. Why don't you just forget it. You've had a long day. Why don't you just relax for a while?” She nodded, and went back to loading the dishes. He disappeared into the back of the house, to his bedroom, and it was an hour later when she had finally finished. All the food was put away, and the kitchen looked impeccable. The dishes were in the machine, and the living room looked tidy and spotless. She was well organized and she bustled through the house straightening furniture and pictures. It was a way of keeping her mind off everything that had happened.

When she went to her room, her father's door was closed, and she thought she could hear him talking on the phone. She wondered if he was going out, as she closed her own door, and lay on her bed with all her clothes on. She'd gotten food on the black dress by then, and she'd splashed it with soap and water when she did the dishes. Her hair felt like string, her mouth like cotton, her heart like lead. She closed her eyes, as she lay there miserably, and two little rivers of tears flowed from the outer corners of her eyes to her ears.

“Why, Mama? Why … why did you leave me? …” It was the final betrayal, the final abandonment. What would she do now? Who would help her? The only good thing was that she could leave and go to college in September. Maybe. If they'd still take her. And if her father would let her. But there was no reason to stay here now. There was every reason to leave, which was all she wanted.

She heard her father open his door and go out into the hall. He called her name, and she didn't answer him. She was too tired to speak to anyone, even him, as she lay on her bed, crying for her mother. Then she heard his bedroom door close again, and it was a long time before she finally got up, and walked into her bathroom. It was her only luxury, having her own bathroom. Her mother had let her paint it pink, in the little three-bedroom house her mother had been so proud of. They had wanted the third bedroom for the son they'd planned to have, but the baby had never come, and her mother had used it as a sewing room for as long as Grace could remember.

She ran a hot bath almost to the edge of the tub, and she went to lock her bedroom door, before she took off her mother's tired black dress, and let it fall to the floor around her feet, after she kicked her mother's shoes off.

She let herself slowly into the tub, and closed her eyes as she lay there. She was totally unaware of how beautiful she was, how long and slender her legs, how graceful her hips, or how appealing her breasts were. She saw none of it, and wouldn't have cared. She just lay there with her eyes closed and let her mind drift. It was as though her head were filled with sand. There were no images, no people she wanted to see in her mind's eye, nothing she wanted to do, or be. She just wanted to hang in space and think of absolutely nothing.

She knew she'd been there for a long time when the water had grown cold, and she heard her father knocking on the door to her bedroom. “What are you doing in there, Grade? Are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” she shouted from the tub, roused from her trancelike state. It was growing dark outside, and she hadn't bothered to turn the lights on.

“Come on out. You'll be lonely.”

“I'm fine.” Her voice was a monotone, her eyes distant, keeping everyone far from the place where she really lived, deep in her own soul, where no one could find her or hurt her.

She could hear him still standing outside her door, urging her to come out and talk to him, and she told him she'd be out in a few minutes. She dried herself off, and put on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. And over that, she put on one of her baggy sweaters, in spite of the heat. And when she was all dressed again, she unlocked the door, and went back to unload the dishwasher in the kitchen. He was standing there, looking out at her mother's roses, and he turned when Grace came into the room, and smiled at her.

“Want to go outside and sit for a while? It's a nice night. You could do this later.”

“It's okay. I might as well get it done.” He shrugged and helped himself to a beer, and then he walked outside and sat down on the kitchen steps and watched the fireflies in the distance. She knew it was pretty outside, but she didn't want to look at it, didn't want to remember this night, or anything about it. Just like she didn't want to remember the day her mother died or the pitiful way she'd begged Grace to be good to her father. That was all she'd cared about … him … all that ever mattered to her was making him happy.

When the dishes were put away, Grace went back to her room again, and lay down on the bed, without turning on the light. She still couldn't get used to the silence. She kept waiting to hear her voice, for the past two days she kept listening for her, as though she'd been sleeping, but would wake up in pain at any moment. But there was no pain for Ellen Adams now, there never would be again. She was at peace at last. And all they had left was the silence.

Grace put her nightgown on at ten o'clock, and left her jeans in a pile on the floor, with her sweater and T-shirt. She locked her door, and went to bed. There was nothing else to do. She didn't want to read or watch TV, the chores were done, there was no one she had to take care of. She just wanted to go to sleep and forget everything that had happened … the funeral … the things people had said … the smell of the flowers … the words of their minister at the graveside. No one knew her mother anyway, no one knew any of them, just as they didn't know her, and didn't really care. All they wanted and knew were their own illusions.

“Grade …” She heard her father knock softly on the door. “Grade … honey, are you awake?” She heard him, but she didn't answer. What was there to say? How much they missed her? How much she had meant to them? Why bother? It wouldn't bring her back anyway. Nothing would. Grace just lay in bed in the dark, in her old pink nylon nightgown.

She heard him try the doorknob then, and she didn't stir. She had locked the door. She always did. At school the other girls made fun of her for being so modest. She locked the doors everywhere. Then she could be sure of being alone, and not being bothered. “Grade?” He was still standing there, determined not to let her grieve alone, his voice sounded gentle and warm, as she stared at the door, and refused to answer. “Come on, baby … let me in, and we'll talk … we're both hurting right now … come on, honey … let me help you.” She didn't stir, and this time he rattled the doorknob. “Honey, don't make me force the door, you know I can. Now come on, let me in.”

“I can't. I'm sick,” she lied. She looked beautiful and pale in the moonlight, her white face and arms like marble, but he couldn't see them.

“You're not sick.” He knew her better than that. As he talked to her, he was unbuttoning his shirt. He was tired too, but he didn't want her locked up alone in her room, with her grief. That's what he was there for. “Gracie!” His tone was growing firm, and she sat up in bed and stared at the door, almost as though she could see him beyond it, and this time she looked frightened.

“Don't come in, Dad.” There was a tremor in her voice, as she looked at the door. It was as though she knew he was all-powerful, and she feared him. “Dad, don't.” She could hear him forcing the door, as she put her feet on the floor, and sat on the edge of the bed, waiting to see if he could force it. But she heard him walk away then, and she sat shaking on the edge of the bed. She knew him too well. He never gave up on anything that easily, and she knew he wouldn't now.

A moment later, he was back, and she heard an implement of some kind jimmy the lock, and an instant later, he was standing in her room, bare-chested and barefoot, with only his trousers on, and a look of annoyance.

“You don't need to do that. It's just the two of us now. You know I'm not going to hurt you.”

“I know … I … I couldn't help it … I'm sorry, Dad …”

“That's better.” He walked to where she sat, and looked down at her sternly. “There's no point in your being miserable in here. Why don't you come on into my room and we'll talk for a while.” He looked fatherly, and disappointed by her constant reticence, and as she looked up at him, he could see that she was shaking.

“I can't … I … I have a headache.”

“Come on.” He leaned down and grabbed her by the arm, and pulled her from where she sat. “We'll talk in my room.”

“I don't want to … I … no!” she snapped at him, and pulled her arm out of his hand. “I can't!” she shouted at him, and this time he looked angry. He wasn't going to play these games with her anymore. Not now. And not tonight. There was no point, and no need. She knew what her mother had said to her. His eyes burned into hers as he looked down at her, and grabbed her harder.

“Yes, you can, and you're going to, dammit. I told you to come into my room.”

“Dad, please …” Her voice was a thin whine, as he dragged her from the bed, and she followed him unwillingly into his bedroom. “Please, Mom …” She could feel her chest tighten and hear the beginnings of a wheeze as she begged him.

“You heard what your mother said when she died,” he spat the words angrily at her. “You know what she told you …”

“I don't care.” It was the first time in her entire life that she had defied him. In the past, she had whimpered and cried, but she had never fought him as she did now, she had begged, but never argued. This was new for her, and he didn't like it. “Mom isn't here now,” she said, shaking from head to foot, as she stared at him, trying to dredge something from her very soul that had never been there before, the courage to fight her father.

“No, she isn't, is she?” He smiled. “That's the point, Grace. We don't have to hide anymore, you and I. We can do whatever we want. It's our life now … our time … and no one ever has to know it. …” He advanced toward her with eyes that glittered at her, as she took a step backwards, and he grabbed both her arms, and then an instant later, with a single gesture, he tore the pink nylon nightgown in half, right off her shoulders. “There … that's better … isn't it … we don't need this anymore … we don't need anything … all I need is you, little Grade … all I need is my baby who loves me so much, and whom I love. …” With a single hand, he dropped his trousers and stepped out of them, along with his shorts, and he stood naked and erect before her.

“Dad … please …” It was a long, sad gasp of grief and shame, as she hung her head, and looked away from him, at the sight of him that was all too familiar. “Dad, I can't …” Tears slid down her cheeks. He didn't understand. She had done it for her, because her mother had begged her. She had done it for years, since she was thirteen … since just after her mother got sick, and had the first operation. Before that, he had beaten her, and Grace had listened to it, night after night, in her bedroom, sobbing, and listening to them, and in the morning, her mother would try to explain the bruises, talking about how she had fallen, or walked right into the bathroom door, or slipped, but it was no secret. They all knew. No one would have believed John Adams capable of it, but he was, and a great deal more. He would have beaten Grace, too, except that Ellen never let him. Instead, she had offered herself up, time after time, for his beatings, and told Grace to lock the door to her room.

Twice, Ellen had miscarried because of the beatings, the last time at six months, and after that, there had been no more children. The beatings had been brutal and terrifying, but subtle enough that the bruises could always be hidden or explained, as long as Ellen was willing to do it, and she was. She had loved him ever since high school, he was the best-looking boy in town, and she knew she was lucky to have him. Her parents had been dirt-poor, and she hadn't even finished high school. She was a beautiful girl, but she knew that without John, she didn't have a chance in the world. That was what he told her, and she believed him. Her own father had beaten her too, and at first what John did, didn't seem so unusual or so awful. But it got worse over the years, and at times he threatened to leave her because she was so worthless. He made her do anything he wanted just so he wouldn't leave her. And as Grace grew up and grew more beautiful each day, it was easy to see what he wanted, what would be required of her, if she really wanted to keep him. And once Ellen got sick, and the radiation and chemotherapy changed her so dramatically, deep penetration was no longer possible. He told her bluntly then that if she expected to stay married to him something would have to be worked out to keep him happy. It was obvious that she couldn't keep him happy anymore, couldn't give him what he wanted. But Grace could. She was thirteen, and so very lovely.

Her mother had explained it to her, so she wouldn't be frightened. It was something she could do for them, like a gift, she could help her dad be happy, and help her mom, it would be as though she was even more a part of them, and her dad would love her more than he ever had before. At first, Grace didn't understand, and then she cried … what would her friends think if they ever knew? How could she do that with her father? But her mother kept telling her how she had to help them, how she owed it to them, how her mother would die if someone didn't help her, and maybe he would leave them, and then they'd be alone, with no one to take care of them. She painted a terrifying picture, and put the leaden mantle of responsibility on Grace's shoulders. The girl sagged at the weight of it, and the horror of what was expected of her. But they didn't wait to hear her answer. That night, they came into her room, and her mother helped him. She held her down, and crooned to her, and told her what a good girl she was, and how much they loved her. And afterwards, when they went back to their room, John held Ellen in his arms and thanked her.

It was a lonely life for Grace after that. He didn't come to her every night, but almost. Sometimes she thought she would die of shame, and sometimes he really hurt her. She never told anyone, and eventually her mother stopped coming into the room with him. Grace knew what was expected of her, and that she had no choice except to do it. And when she argued with him, he'd hit her hard, and eventually she knew there was no way out, no choice. She did it for her, not for him. She submitted so he wouldn't beat her mother anymore, or leave them. But anytime Grace didn't cooperate with him, or do everything he asked, he went back to his own room and beat up her mother, no matter how sick she was, or how much pain she was in. It was a message that Grace always understood, and she would run shrieking into their room, and swear that she'd do anything he wanted. And over and over and over again, he made her prove it. For over four years now, he had done everything he could dream of with her, she was his very own love slave, his daughter. And the only thing her mother had done to protect Grace from him was get birth control pills for her so she wouldn't get pregnant.

She had no friends at all once he started sleeping with her. She had had few enough before, because she was always afraid that someone would find out he was beating her mother, and Grace knew she had to protect them. But once she started sleeping with him, it was impossible to talk to any of the kids in school, or even the teachers. She was always sure they'd know, that they'd see something on her face, or her body, like a sign, like a malignancy that, unlike her mother, she wore on the outside. The malignancy was his, but she never really understood that. Until now. Now she knew that with her mother gone, she didn't have to do this. It had to stop. She just couldn't now. Not even for her mother. It was too much … and especially in this room. He had always come to Grace's room, and forced her to let him in. He had never dared take her in his own room. But now it was as though he expected her to step right into her mother's shoes, and fill them in ways that even her mother never could. It was as though he expected her to be his bride now. Even the way he talked to her was different. It was all out in the open. He expected her to be his woman.

And as he looked at her body shimmering enticingly at him, her frantic pleas and arguments only served to arouse him further. He looked hard and ominous as he stood holding her in his powerful grip, and with a single gesture he threw her onto his bed, precisely where his invalid wife had lain until only two days before, and for all the empty years of their marriage.

But this time, Grace struggled with him, she had already decided that she wasn't going to submit again, and as she fought with him, she realized that she had been crazy to think she could stay under the same roof with him, and not have the same nightmare continue. She would have to run away, but first she had to resist, and survive what he was doing to her. She knew she couldn't let him do it to her again … she couldn't Even if her mother had wanted her to be good to him, she had been good enough. She couldn't do it anymore … never again … never … but as she flailed her arms helplessly, he pinned her down with his powerful arms, and the weight of his body. Her legs were swiftly parted by his own, and the familiarity of him forced his way through her with more pain than she had ever known or imagined. For a moment, she almost thought he might kill her. It had never been this way before, he had never hurt her as much as he did now. It was as though he were beating her with a fist from inside this time, and wanted to prove to her that he owned her and could do anything he wanted. It was almost beyond bearing and for an instant she thought she might faint, as the room swirled around her, and he hammered at her again and again, tearing at her breasts, chewing at her lips, forcing himself into her again and again, until she seemed to drift in a half state near death, wishing that finally, mercifully, he would kill her.

But even as he ravished her, she knew she couldn't do this again. He couldn't do it to her, she couldn't survive it, for him, or anyone. She knew that she was within an inch of falling off the edge of a dangerous ledge, and suddenly as she fought and clawed at him, she knew through the blur that she was fighting for her survival. And then, without even knowing how she had remembered it, she knew that they had rolled closer to her mother's night table. For years now, there had been neat rows of pills there and a glass and a pitcher of water. She could have poured the water over him, or hit him with the pitcher, but it was gone. There were no more pills, no water, no glass, and no one to take them. But without thinking, Grace groped her hand along the table, as he continued to pound at her, shouting and grunting. He had slapped her hard several times across the face, but now he was only interested in punishing her with his sexual force and not his hands. He was squeezing her breasts, and pressing her into the bed. He had almost knocked the wind out of her, and her vision was still blurred from when he had hit her, but she felt the drawer of the night table open as she pulled at it, and then she felt the sleek cool steel of the gun her mother had hidden there against intruders. Ellen would never have dared to use it on her husband, or even to threaten him. No matter what he had done to her, or Grace, Ellen had truly loved him.

Grace felt her fingers go around its smooth surfaces, and she got a grip on it, and brandished it above him, for an instant wanting to hit him with it, just to stop him. He was almost finished with her, but she couldn't let him do this to her again. She had to stop him, no matter what or how, she knew she had to stop him before it went any further. She couldn't survive this again. And tonight only told her that he intended this to be her fate for a lifetime. He wouldn't let her go anywhere, he would never let her leave or go to college, or do anything else. She would have no life except to service him, and she knew that whatever it took, she had to stop him. And as she held the gun in her shaking, flailing hand, he came with a huge shuddering shout that made her wince with pain and anguish and revulsion. Just hearing that again made her hate him. And as she pointed the gun at him, he looked up and saw it.

“You little bitch!” he shouted at her, still shaken by the strength of his orgasm. No one had ever aroused him as Grace did. He wanted to take her and turn her inside out, tear her limb from limb, and devour her. Nothing excited him more than his own flesh, it was deeply primeval. And he was outraged now that she was still going to fight him. He moved to grab the gun from her, and she could see what he was going to do to her. He was going to beat her again and beating her always aroused him further. She couldn't let him do it, couldn't let him take her ever again. She had to save herself from him. He was still inside her, as he reached over to grab the gun from her, and in panic she squeezed the trigger as he tried to take it. He looked stunned for just an instant as the gun went off with a sound that terrified her, his eyes bulged, and then he fell down on her with a crushing weight. She had shot him through the throat, and he was bleeding profusely, but he wasn't moving. She tried to fight her way out from under him, and free herself from him, but she couldn't do it. He was too heavy, and she couldn't breathe, and there was blood in her eyes and her mouth now. She was gasping for air, and then with all the strength she had, she forced him from her. He rolled over on his back on the bed, and made a terrifying gurgling sound as he looked at her, but nothing moved and his eyes were open.

“Oh my God … oh my God …” she said, still gasping for air, and clutching her own throat now as she stared at him. She could still taste his blood on her tongue, and she didn't want to touch him. There was blood all over her and the bed, and all she could think of were her mother's words … “Be good to Daddy, Grace … be good to him … take care of him … always take care of your father …” And she had. She had shot him. His eyes moved around the room, but he seemed to be paralyzed, nothing moved, as he stared at her in terror. She backed into the corner then, and looked at him, and as she did, her whole body shook violently and she threw up on the carpet. When she stopped, she forced herself to go to the phone, and dial the operator.

“I need … an ambulance … ambulance … my father's been shot … I shot my father. …” She was gasping for air, and she gave them the address, and then she stood staring at him. He hadn't moved since he'd fallen back on the bed, and his organ was limp now. The thing that had so terrified her, that had tortured her for so long, looked suddenly so small and harmless, as did he. He looked terrifying and pathetic, blood was bubbling from his throat, and he moaned from time to time. She knew she had done a terrible thing, but she couldn't help it. The gun was still in her hand, and she was cowering naked in the corner when the police came. And she was gasping from her asthma.

“My God …” the first officer into the room said softly, and then he saw her and took the gun from her as the others walked into the room behind him. The youngest of them thought to wrap her in a blanket, but he had seen the marks on her, the blood smeared everywhere, and the look in her eyes. She seemed crazy. She had been to hell and only halfway back.

Her father was still alive when the ambulance and the paramedics came, but barely. She had severed his spinal cord and the paramedics suspected that the bullet had gone into his lung after that. He was completely paralyzed, and couldn't speak to them. But he didn't even see Grace as he left. His eyes were closed, and they were giving him oxygen. He was barely breathing.

“Is he gonna make it?” the senior policeman asked the paramedics as they put him into the ambulance and turned the siren on in a hurry.

“Hard to say,” they answered, and then in an undertone, “Not likely.” They left the scene then, and the older officer shook his head. He had known John Adams since he was in high school. John had handled his divorce for him. Hell of a guy, and why in God's name had the kid shot him? He'd seen the scene when they'd arrived, and he'd noticed that neither of them was dressed, but that could mean anything. Obviously, it had happened after they went to bed in their own rooms, and John probably didn't sleep in pajamas. Why the girl was naked was another thing. She was obviously unbalanced, and maybe her mom's death had been too much for her. Maybe she blamed her father for the mother's death. Whatever it was, they'd find it out in the investigation.

“How is she?” he asked one of his junior officers. There were a dozen officers on the scene by then. It was the biggest thing that had happened in Watseka since the minister's son had taken LSD and committed suicide ten years before. That had been a tragedy, but this was going to be a scandal. For a man like John Adams to be shot by his own kid, that was a real crime, and a loss for the whole town. No one was going to believe it. “Is she on drugs?” he asked as a photographer took pictures of the bedroom. The gun was already in a plastic bag in the squad car.

“She doesn't look like it,” the young cop said. “Not obviously, at least. She looks kind of out of it, and very scared. She has asthma, and she's having a hard time breathing.”

“I'm sorry to hear it,” the senior officer said sarcastically as he glanced around the neat living room. He had been there only hours before, after the funeral. It was hard to believe why he was back now. Maybe the kid was just plain crazy. “Her father's got a lot worse than asthma.”

“What did they say?” The junior officer looked concerned. “Is he gonna make it?”

“It doesn't look great. Seems like our little shooter here did quite a job on her old man. Spinal cord, maybe a lung, God only knows what else, or why.”

“Think he was doing her?” the younger man asked, intrigued by the situation, but the older man looked outraged.

“John Adams? Are you nuts? Do you know who he is? He's the best lawyer in town. And the most decent guy you'd ever want to meet. You think a guy like him would do his own kid? You're as crazy as she is and not much of a cop if you can come to a conclusion like that.”

“I don't know … it kind of looked like it, they were both naked … and she looks so scared … there's a bruise coming up on her arm … and …” He hesitated, given the senior man's reaction, but he couldn't conceal evidence, no matter who the guy was. Evidence was evidence. “There was come on the sheets, it looked like …” There had been a lot of blood, but there were other spots too. And the young cop had seen them.

“I don't give a damn what it looked like, O'Byrne. There's more than one way for come to get on a man's sheets. The guy's wife just died, maybe he was lonely, maybe he was playing with himself when she came in with the gun, maybe she didn't know what he was doing and it scared her. But there's no way in hell you're gonna come in here and tell me that John Adams was doing it to his kid. Forget it.”

“Sorry, sir.” The other officers were already rolling up the sheets as evidence anyway and putting them in plastic bags too, and another officer was talking to Grace in her bedroom. She was sitting on the bed, still wearing the blanket they had given her when they got there. She had found her inhaler and she was breathing more easily now, but she looked deathly pale, and the officer questioning her wondered how clear she was on what had happened. She seemed so dazed that he almost wondered if she understood him. She said she didn't remember finding the gun, it was suddenly just in her hand, and it went off. She remembered the noise, and then her father bleeding all over her. And that was all she remembered.

“How was he bleeding on you? Where were you?” He had the same impression of the scene as O'Byrne, though it seemed hard to believe of John Adams.

“I don't remember,” she said blankly. She sounded like an automaton, her breath was still coming in little short gasps, and she seemed a little shaky from the medication.

“You don't remember where you were when you shot your father?”

“I don't know.” She looked at him as though she didn't see him sitting there on her bed with her. “In the doorway,” she lied. She knew what she had to do. She owed it to her mother to protect him.

“You shot him from the doorway?” It was impossible, and they were getting nowhere. “Do you think someone else shot your father?” He wondered if that was where she was going with her story. An intruder. But that was even less believable than the story about the doorway.

“No. I shot him. From the doorway.”

The officer knew without a doubt that her father had been shot at close range, maybe no more than an inch or two, by a person right in front of him, obviously his daughter. But where were they?

“Were you in bed with him?” he asked her pointedly, and she didn't answer. She stared straight ahead, as though he weren't even there, and gave a little sigh. “Were you in bed with him?” he asked again, and she hesitated for a long time before she answered.

“I'm not sure. I don't think so.”

“How's it going in here?” the senior officer inquired, as he poked his head in the door. It was three o'clock in the morning by then, and they had done everything they needed to do at the crime scene.

The officer questioning Grace gave a hopeless shrug. It was not going well. She was not making a lot of sense, she was shaking violently, and she was so dazed that at times he really wondered if she even knew what had happened. “We're going to take you in, Grace. You're going to be in custody for a few days. We need to talk to you some more about what happened.” She nodded, and said nothing to him. She just sat there, with bloodstains all over her, in the blanket. “Maybe you'd like to clean up a little bit, and put your clothes on.” He nodded at the officer who'd been talking to her, but Grace didn't move, she just sat there. “We're taking you in, Grace. For questioning,” he explained again, wondering if she really was crazy. John had never mentioned it, but it wasn't the kind of thing one said to clients.

“We're going to hold you for seventy-two hours,pending an investigation of the shooting.” Had it been premeditated? Had she meant to shoot him? Had it been an accident? What was the deal here? He wondered too if she was on drugs, and he wanted her tested.

She didn't ask if they were arresting her. She didn't ask anything. And she didn't get dressed either. She seemed completely disoriented, which was what suggested to the officer in charge more and more clearly that she was crazy. In the end, they called for a female officer to come out and help them, and she dressed Grace like a small child, but not without noticing assorted marks and bruises on her body. She told her to wash the bloodstains off, and Grace was surprisingly obliging. She did whatever she was told, but she 6ffered no information.

“Did you and your dad have a fight?” the woman officer inquired as Grace stepped into her old jeans and T-shirt. She was still shaking as though she were standing naked in the Arctic. But Grace never answered her question. “Were you mad at him?” Nothing. Silence. She wasn't hostile. She wasn't anything. She looked as though she were in a trance, as they walked her through the living room, and she never once asked about her father. She didn't want to know where he'd gone, where they'd taken him, or what had happened once he got there. She stopped only for an instant as they crossed the living room, and looked at a photograph of her mother. It was in a silver frame, and Grace was standing next to her in the picture. She had been two or three years old, and both of them were smiling. Grace looked at it for a long time, remembering what her mother had looked like, how pretty she had been, and how much she wanted of Grace. Too much. She wanted to tell her she was sorry now. She just couldn't do it. She had let her mother down. She hadn't taken care of him. She couldn't anymore. And now he was gone. She couldn't remember where he had gone. But he was gone. And she wasn't going to take care of him anymore.

“She's really out of it,” the woman officer said right within earshot, as Grace stared at her mother's picture. She wanted to remember it. She had a feeling she might not be seeing it again, but she wasn't sure why. She only knew that they were leaving. “You going to call in a shrink?” the officer asked.

“Yeah, maybe,” the senior officer said. More than ever, he was beginning to think she was retarded. Or maybe not. Maybe it was all an act. Maybe there was more to it than met the eye. It was hard to say. God only knew what she'd really been up to.

When Grace stepped outside in the night air, the front lawn was swarming with policemen. There were seven squad cars parked outside, most of them had come just to see what had happened, some were responsible for checking out the crime scene. There were lights flashing and men in uniform everywhere, and the young cop named O'Byrne helped her into the back of a squad car. The female officer got in beside her. She wasn't particularly sympathetic to her. She'd seen girls like her before, druggies, or fakes who pretended to be out of it so they wouldn't get blamed for what they'd done. She'd seen a fifteen-year-old who'd killed her entire family, and then claimed that voices on television had made her do it. For all she knew, Grace was a smart little bitch pretending she was crazy. But something about her told the officer that this one might be for real, maybe not crazy, but something was wrong with her. And she kept gulping air, as though she couldn't catch her breath. Something was definitely odd about the girl. But then again, she had shot and almost killed her old man, that was enough to push most people over the edge. Anyway, it wasn't their job to figure out if she was sane. The shrinks could work out that one.

The ride to Central Station downtown was a short one, particularly at that hour, but Grace looked worse than ever when she got there. The lights were fluorescent and bright, and she looked almost green as they put her in a holding cell where she waited until a burly male officer walked into the room and looked her over.

“Are you Grace Adams?” he asked curtly, and she only nodded. She felt as though she was going to faint or throw up again. Maybe she would die. That was all she had wanted anyway. Dying would be fine. Her life was a nightmare. “Yes or no?” he asked, shouting at her.

“Yes, I am.”

“Your father just died at the hospital. We're arresting you for murder.” He read her her rights, dropped some papers into the hands of a female officer who had walked in just behind him. And then, without another word, he left the room, with a heavy clang of the metal door that sealed them into the cell where she had been waiting. There was a moment's silence, and then the female officer told her to strip all her clothes off. To Grace, it was all like a very bad movie.

“Why?” Grace said hoarsely.

“Strip search,” the officer explained, as Grace slowly began undressing, with shaking fingers. The entire process was utterly humiliating. And after that, they took fingerprints, and did mug shots.

“Heavy rap,” another female officer said coldly as she handed Grace a paper towel to wipe the ink off her fingers, “How old are you?” she asked casually, as Grace looked at her. She was still trying to absorb what they had told her. She had killed him. He was dead. It was over.

“Seventeen.”

“Bad luck for you. You can be tried as an adult for murder in Illinois if you're over thirteen. If they find you guilty, you pull down at least fourteen, fifteen years. Death penalty too. You're in the big leagues now, baby.” Nothing seemed real to Grace as her hands were cuffed behind her back and she was led from the room. And five minutes later, she was in a cell with four other women, and an open toilet that reeked of urine and human waste. The place was noisy and filthy, and all of the women in her cell were lying on bare mattresses and covered with blankets. Two were awake, but no one was talking. No one said a word as she was uncuffed, handed a blanket, and went to sit on the only unoccupied bunk in the small cell.

She looked around her in disbelief. It had come to this. But there had been no other way out. She couldn't take it anymore. She'd had to do it … she hadn't meant to … hadn't planned it … but now that she had, she wasn't even sorry. It was her life or his. She would have just as soon died, but it hadn't happened that way. It had just happened, without intent or plan. She had had no choice. She had killed him.

Chapter 2

Grace lay on the thin mattress all night, barely feeling the sharp metal coils beneath her. She didn't feel anything. She wasn't shaking anymore. She just lay there. Thinking. She had no family anymore. No one. No parents. No friends. She wondered what would happen to her, would she be found guilty of murder? Would she get the death penalty? She couldn't forget what the booking officer had told her. She was being charged as an adult, and accused of murder. Maybe the death penalty was the price she had to pay. And if it was, she'd pay it. At least he could never touch her again, he couldn't hurt her anymore. Her four years of hell at his hands were over.

“Grace Adams?” a voice called out her name just after seven o'clock in the morning. She'd been there for three hours by then, and she hadn't slept all night, but she didn't feel as disembodied as she had the night before. She knew what was happening. She remembered shooting her father. And she knew he had died, and why. She knew that better than anything else. And she wasn't sorry.

She was escorted to a small dingy room with heavy locked doors at either end. They put her in it without explanation. There was a table, four chairs, and a bright light overhead. She stood there, and five minutes later, the door at the other end of the room opened. A tall blond woman walked in. She looked cool as she glanced at Grace, and waited for a moment as she watched her. She didn't smile, she didn't say anything, she just observed Grace for a long moment. And Grace said nothing to her, she stayed at the far end of the room, looking like a young doe about to bolt from the room, except she couldn't. She was in a cage. She was quiet, but afraid. And even in her jeans and T-shirt, there was a quiet dignity about her. There was an unmistakable quality about her, as though she had suffered and come far, paid a high price for her freedom, and felt it was worth it. It wasn't anger one sensed about her, it was a long-suffering kind of patience. She had seen too much in her short years, life and death, and betrayal, and it showed in her eyes. Molly York saw it the moment she looked at Grace, and she was touched by the raw pain she saw there.

“I'm Molly York,” she explained quietly. “I'm a psychiatrist. Do you know why I'm here?”

Grace shook her head, and didn't move an inch closer, as the two women stood at opposite sides of the room.

“Do you remember what happened last night?”

Grace nodded slowly.

“Why don't you sit down?” She pointed to the chairs, and they each took a seat on opposite sides of the table. Grace wasn't sure if the woman was sympathetic to her or not, but she was clearly not her friend, and she was obviously part of the police investigation, which meant that she was potentially someone who wanted to hurt her. But she wasn't going to lie to her. She would tell her the truth in answer to anything she asked, as long as she didn't ask too much about her father. That was nobody's business. She owed it to him not to expose him, and to her mother, not to embarrass them. What difference did it make now anyway? He was gone. It never occurred to her for an instant to ask for an attorney, or try to save herself. That just didn't matter.

“What do you remember about last night?” the psychiatrist asked carefully, watching her every move and expression.

“I shot my father.”

“Do you remember why?”

Grace hesitated before replying, and then said nothing.

“Were you angry at him? Had you been thinking about shooting him for a while?”

Grace shook her head very quickly. “I never thought about shooting him. I just found the gun in my hand. I don't even know how it got there. My mom used to keep it in her night table. She was sick for a long time, and she'd get scared sometimes if we were out, so she liked to have it. But she never used it.” She seemed very young and innocent as she explained it to the psychiatrist, but at first glance, she seemed neither insane, nor retarded, as the arresting officers had suggested. Nor did she seem dangerous. She seemed very polite and well brought up, and oddly self-possessed for someone who'd been through a shocking experience, had had no sleep at all, and was in a great deal of trouble.

“Was your father holding the gun? Did you fight over it? Did you try and take it from him?”

“No. I was holding it on him. I remember feeling it in my hand. And …” She didn't want to tell her that he had hit her. “Then I shot him.” She looked down at her hands then.

“Do you know why? Were you angry at him? Did he do something to you that made you angry? Did you have a fight?”

“No … well … sort of …” It was a fight … it was a fight for survival. … “I … it wasn't important.”

“It must have been very important,” the psychiatrist said pointedly. “Important enough to shoot him over it, Grace. Important enough to kill him. Let's be honest here. Had you ever shot a gun before?”

She shook her head, looking sad and tired. Maybe she should have done it years before, but then her mother would have been heartbroken. In her own sad way, she had loved him. “No. I never shot a gun before.”

“Why was last night different?”

“My mom died two days ago … three days ago now, I guess. Her funeral was yesterday.” She'd obviously been overwrought. But what were they fighting about? Molly York was intrigued by Grace as she watched her. She was hiding something, but she wasn't sure what. She wasn't sure if it was something damaging to herself, or her father. And it wasn't the psychiatrist's job to unearth the answers as to her innocence or guilt. But it was up to her to determine if the girl was sane or not, and knew what she was doing. But what had she been doing? And what was he doing that caused her to shoot him?

“Did you have a fight about your mom? Did she leave him some money, or something you wanted?”

Grace smiled at the question, looking too wise for her years, and not at all retarded. “I don't think she had anything to leave anyone. She never worked, and she didn't have anything. My dad made all the money. He's a lawyer … or … was …” she said calmly.

“Is he going to leave you something?”

“I don't know … maybe … I guess so …” She didn't know yet that if you commit murder, you cannot inherit from your victim. If she were to be found guilty, she would not inherit anything from her father. But that had never been her motive.

“So what did you two fight about?” Molly York was persistent, and Grace didn't trust her. She was much too pushy. There was a relentlessness about her questions, and a look of intelligence in her eyes that worried Grace. She would see too much, understand too much. And she had no right to know. It was no one's business what her father had done to her all these years, she didn't want anyone to know. Not even if saying it saved her. She didn't want the whole town to know what he had done to her. What would they think of them then, and of her, or her mother? It didn't bear thinking.

“We didn't fight.”

“Yes, you did,” Molly York said quiedy. “You must have. You didn't just walk into the room and shoot him … or did you?” Grace shook her head in answer. “You shot him from less than two inches away. What were you thinking when you shot him?”

“I don't know. I wasn't thinking anything. I was just trying to … I … it doesn't matter.”

“Yes, it does.” Molly York leaned toward her seriously from across the table. “Grace, you're being charged with murder. If he did something to you, or hurt you in any way, it's self-defense, or manslaughter, not murder. No matter how great a betrayal you think it is, you have to tell me.”

“Why? Why do I have to tell anyone anything? Why should I?” She sounded like a child as she said it. But she was a child who had killed her father.

“Because if you don't tell someone, Grace, you could end up in prison for a lot of years, and that's wrong if you were trying to defend yourself. What did he do to you, Grace, to make you shoot him?”

“I don't know. Maybe I was just upset about my mother.” She was squirming in her seat, and looked away as she said it.

“Did he rape you?” Grace's eyes opened wide and she looked at her at the question. And her breath seemed short when she answered.

“No. Never.”

“Did he ever have intercourse with you? Have you ever had intercourse with your father?” Grace looked horrified. She was coming too close, much too close. She hated this woman. What was she trying to do? Make everything worse? Make more trouble? Disgrace all of them? It was nobody's business.

“No. Of course not!” she almost shouted, but she looked very nervous.

“Are you sure?” The two women's eyes met for a long time, and Grace finally shook her head.

“No. Never.”

“Were you having intercourse with him last night when you shot him?” She looked at Grace pointedly, and Grace shook her head again, but she looked agitated, and Molly saw it.

“Why are you asking me these questions?” she asked unhappily, and you could hear the wheeze of her asthma as she said it.

“Because I want to know the truth. I want to know if he hurt you, if you had reason to shoot him.” Grace only shook her head again. “Were you and your father lovers, Grace? Did you like sleeping with him?” But this time when she raised her eyes to Molly's again, her answer was totally honest.

“No.” I hated it. But she couldn't say those words to Molly.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” Grace shook her head again. “Have you ever had intercourse with a boy?”

Grace sighed, knowing she never would. How could she? “No.”

“You're a virgin?” There was silence. “I asked if you were a virgin.” She was pressing her again, and Grace didn't like it.

“I don't know. I guess so.”

“What does that mean? Have you fooled around, is that what you mean by you ‘guess so’?”

“Maybe.” She looked very young again, and Molly smiled. You couldn't lose your virginity from petting.

“Have you ever had a boyfriend? At seventeen you must have.” She smiled again, but Grace shook her head in answer.

“Is there anything you want to say to me about last night, Grace? Do you remember how you felt before you shot him? What made you shoot him?” Grace shook her head dumbly.

“I don't know.”

Molly York knew that Grace wasn't being honest with her. As shaken as she may have been at the time of the shooting, she wasn't dazed now. She was fully alert, and determined not to tell Molly what had happened. The tall attractive blonde looked at the girl for a long time, and then slowly closed her notebook and uncrossed her legs.

“I wish you'd be honest with me. I can help you, Grace. Honest.” If she felt that Grace had been defending herself, or that there had been extenuating circumstances it would be a lot easier for her. But Grace wasn't giving her anything to go on. And the funny thing was that, in spite of her circumstances and the fact that she wasn't cooperating at all, Molly York liked her. Grace was a beautiful girl, and she had big, honest, open eyes. Molly saw so much sorrow and pain there, and yet she didn't know how to help her. It would come. But for the moment, Grace was too busy hiding from everyone to let anyone near her.

“I've told you everything I remember.”

“No, you haven't,” Molly said quietly. “But maybe you will later.” She handed the girl her card. “If you want to see me, call me. And if you don't, I'll be back to see you again anyway. You and I are going to have to spend some time together so I can write a report.”

“About what?” Grace looked worried. Dr. York scared her. She was too smart, and she asked too many questions.

“About your state of mind. About the circumstances of the shooting, such as I understand them. You're not giving me much to work with for the moment.”

“That's all there is. I found the gun in my hand, and I shot him.”

“Just like that.” She didn't believe it for a moment.

“That's right.” She looked like she was trying to convince herself but she had not fooled Molly.

“I don't believe you, Grace.” She looked her right in the eye as she said it.

“Well, that's what happened, whether you believe it or not.”

“And what about now? How do you feel about losing your father?” Within three days she had lost both of her parents and become an orphan, that was a heavy blow for anyone, particularly if she had killed one of her parents.

“… I'm sad about my dad … and my mom. But my mom was so sick and in so much pain, maybe now it's better for her.”

But what about Grace? How much pain had she been in? That was the question that was gnawing at Molly. This was not some bad kid who had just blown away her old man. This was a bright girl, with a sharp mind, who was pretending that she had no idea why she had shot him. It was so aggravating to listen to her say it again that Molly would have liked to kick the table.

“What about your dad? Is it better like this for him?”

“My dad?” Grace looked surprised at the question. “No … he … he wasn't suffering … I guess dais isn't better for him,” Grace said without looking up at Molly. She was hiding something, and Molly knew it.

“What about you? Is it better for you like this? Would you rather be alone?”

“Maybe.” She was honest again for a moment.

“Why? Why would you rather be alone?”

“It's just simpler.” She looked and felt a thousand years old as she said it.

“I don't think so, Grace. It's a complicated world out there. It's not easy for anyone to be alone. Especially not a seventeen-year-old girl. Home must have been a pretty difficult place if you'd rather be alone now. What was ‘home’ like? How was it?”

“It was fine.” She was as closed as an oyster.

“Did your parents get along? Before your mom got sick I mean.”

“They were fine.”

Molly didn't believe her again but she didn't say it. “Were they happy?”

“Sure.” As long as she took care of her father, the way her mother wanted.

“Were you?”

“Sure.” But in spite of herself, tears glistened in her eyes as she said it. The wise psychiatrist was asking far too many painful questions. “I was very happy. I loved my parents.”

“Enough to lie for them? To protect them? Enough not to tell us why you shot your father?”

“There's nothing to tell.”

“Okay.” Molly backed off from her, and stood up at her side of the table. “I'm going to send you to the hospital today, by the way.”

“What for?” Grace looked instantiy terrified, which interested Molly gready. “Why are you doing that?”

“Just part of the routine. Make sure you're healthy. It's no big deal.”

“I don't want to do that.” Grace looked panicked and Molly watched her.

“Why not?”

“Why do I have to?”

“You don't have much choice right now, Grace.

You're in a pretty tight spot. And the authorities are in control. Have you called a lawyer yet?”

Grace looked blank at the question. Someone had told her she could, but she didn't have one to call, unless she called Frank Wills, her father's law partner, but she wasn't even sure she wanted to. What could she say to him? It was easier not to.

“I don't have a lawyer.”

“Did your father have any associates?”

“Yes … but … it's kind of awkward to call them … or him, he had a partner.”

“I think you should, Grace,” she said firmly. “You need an attorney. You can ask for a public defender. But you're better off with someone who knows you.” It was good advice.

“I guess so.” She nodded, looking overwhelmed. There was so much happening. It was all so complicated. Why didn't they just shoot her, or hang her, or do whatever they were going to, without drawing it out, or forcing her to go to the hospital. She was terrified of what they would find there.

“I'll see you later, or tomorrow,” Molly said gently. She liked the girl, and she felt sorry for her. She had been through so much, and what she had done certainly wasn't right, but Molly was convinced that something terrible had caused her to do it. And she intended to do everything she could to find out what had really happened.

She left Grace in the holding cell, and went out to talk to Stan Dooley, the officer in charge of the investigation. He was a veteran detective, and very little surprised him anymore, though this had. He'd met John Adams a number of times over the years, and he couldn't imagine a nicer guy. Hearing he had been shot by his own kid had really stunned him.

“Is she nuts, or a druggie?” Detective Dooley asked Molly as she appeared at his desk at eight o'clock in the morning. She had spent an hour with Grace, and in her mind, had gotten nowhere. Grace was determined not to open up to her. But there were some things that she wanted to know, that they could find out whether or not Grace wanted.

“Neither one. She's scared and shaken up, but she's lucid. Very much so. I want her to go to the hospital today, for an exam, now in fact.” She didn't want too many hours to elapse before they did it.

“What for? Drug screen?”

“If you like. I don't think that's the issue here. I want a pelvic.”

“Why?” He looked surprised. “What are you after?” He knew Dr. York and she was usually pretty sensible, though every now and then she went off the deep end, when she got carried away over one of her patients.

“I've got a couple of theories here. I want to know if she was defending herself. Seventeen-year-old girls don't usually go around shooting their fathers. Not from homes like this one.”

“That's bullshit, and you know it, York,” he said cynically. “What about the fourteen-year-old shooter we had last year who took out her whole family, including grandma and four younger sisters? You gonna tell me that was self-defense too?”

“That was different, Stan. I read the reports. John Adams was naked and so was she, and there was come all over the sheets. You can't deny it was a possibility.”

“Yes, I can, with this guy. I knew him. Straight-arrow as they come, and the nicest guy you'll ever meet. You'd have liked him.” He gave her a look, which she ignored. He loved to tease her. She was very good-looking, and she came from a pretty fancy family in Chicago. He loved to accuse her of “slumming.” But she never fooled around on the job, and he also knew that she had a regular guy who was a doctor. But it didn't hurt to razz her a little. She was always good-humored and pleasant to work with. She was smart too, and Dooley respected her for it. “Let me tell you something, Doctor, this guy would not have been fucking his kid. He just wouldn't. Trust me. Maybe he was jacking off. What do I know?”

“That's not why she shot him,” Molly York said coolly.

“Maybe he told her she couldn't have the keys to the car. My own kids get nuts when I tell them that. Maybe he hated her boyfriend. Trust me, it's not what you think here. This is not self-defense. She killed him.”

“We'll see, Stan. We'll see. Just do me a favor, get her over to Mercy General in the next hour. I'm writing an order.”

“You're terrific. And we'll get her there. Okay? Happy?”

“Thrilled. You're a great guy.” She smiled at him.

“Tell that to the chief,” he grinned at her. He liked her, but he didn't believe a word of her self-defense theory. She was clutching at straws. John Adams just wasn't that kind of guy. No one in Watseka would have believed it, no matter what Molly York thought, or the hospital told her.

Two women officers came to pick Grace up in her cell half an hour later, handcuffed her again, and drove her to Mercy General in a small van with grilles on the windows. They didn't even talk to her. They just chatted to each other about the prisoners they'd transferred the day before, and the movie they were going to see that night, and the vacation one of them was saving up for in Colorado. And Grace was just as glad. She didn't have anything to say to them anyway. She was just wondering what they were going to do to her at the hospital. They had a locked ward they took her to in an elevator that went up directly from the garage, and when they got there, they uncuffed her and left her with a resident and an attendant. And they let Grace know in no uncertain terms that if she didn't behave herself they would handcuff her again and call a guard to control her.

“You got that?” the attendant asked her bluntly, and Grace nodded.

They didn't bother explaining anything to her. They just went down a list of tests that Dr. York had ordered. They took her temperature first, and her blood pressure, checked her eyes and ears and throat, and then listened to her heart.

They did a urine test, and an extensive blood test, checking for illnesses as well as drug screens, and then they told her to undress and stand naked in front of them, and they checked her over carefully for bruises. She had a number of them that caught their interest, there were two on her breasts, several on her arms, and one on her buttocks, and then in spite of her efforts to conceal them from them, they discovered a bad one on her inner thigh where her father had grabbed her and squeezed her. It was high up, and led to another that surprised them further. They took photographs of all of them, despite her protests, and wrote extensive notes about them. She was crying by then, and objecting to everything they were doing.

“Why are you doing this? You don't have to. I admitted I shot him, why do you have to take pictures?” They had taken several graphic ones of her crotch, but there were two bad bruises hidden there and some lesions, and they told her that if she didn't cooperate they would tie her down and take the pictures. It was humiliating beyond words, but there was nothing she could do to stop them.

And then, as they put the camera down, the resident told her to hop on the table. Until then, he had scarcely spoken to her. Most of the directions had been from the attendant, who was a very disagreeable woman. Both of them ignored Grace totally, and referred to various parts of her as though they were looking at them in a butcher shop, and she weren't even a human being.

The resident was putting on rubber gloves by then, and covering his fingers with sterile jelly. He pointed at the stirrups and offered Grace a paper drape to cover herself with. She grabbed it gratefully, but she didn't get on the table.

“What are you doing?” she asked in a terrified voice.

“Haven't you ever had a pelvic?” He looked surprised. She was seventeen after all, and a good-looking girl, it was hard to believe she was a virgin. But if she was, he'd know in a minute.

“No, I …” Her mother had gotten her birth control pills four years before, and she'd never been to a doctor for an examination. No one knew for certain that she wasn't a virgin, and she didn't see what difference it made now. Her father was dead, and she had admitted that she had shot him. So why put her through this? What right did they have to do this? She felt like an animal, and she started to cry again as she clutched the paper drape and stared at them, as the female attendant threatened to tie her down. There was no choice except to agree to do it. She got up on the table, with shaking legs, and she pressed her knees tightly together, as she lay back and put her feet in the stirrups. But given everything that had happened to her, it wasn't the worst thing that she'd ever been through.

He made a lot of notes, and put fingers into her at least four or five times, shining a light so close to her that she could feel it warm her bottom. Then he in-serted an instrument into her, and did all the same things again. This time he took a smear and made a slide, which he set carefully on a tray on the table. But he said nothing to Grace about his findings.

“Okay,” he said indifferently to her, “you can get dressed now.”

“Thank you,” she said hoarsely. She had no idea what they'd found, or what he'd written, but he had made no comment on whether or not she was a virgin, and she was still naive enough not to be entirely sure if he could really see the difference.

She was dressed and ready to go five minutes later, and this time two men ferried her back to her cell at Central Station, and she was left alone with the women in her cell until after dinner. Two of them had been released on bail, they had been there for drug sales and prostitution and their pimp had come to get them, and of the other two one was in for grand theft auto, and the other for possession of a large amount of cocaine. Grace was the only one being held for murder, and everyone seemed to leave her alone, as though they knew that she didn't want to be bothered.

She had just eaten a barely edible, very small, overcooked hamburger, sitting on a sea of wet spinach, while trying not to notice that the cell reeked of urine, when a guard came to the cell, opened it and pointed at her, and led her back to the room where she had met with Molly York that morning.

The young doctor was back, still wearing jeans, after a long day at the hospital where she worked, and then in her office. It was fully twelve hours later.

“Hello,” Grace said cautiously. It was nice to see a familiar face, but she still felt as though the young psychiatrist represented danger.

“How was your day?” Grace shrugged with a small smile. How could it have been? “Did you call your father's partner?”

“Not yet,” she said almost inaudibly. “I'm not sure what to say to him. He and my father were really good friends.”

“Don't you think he'll want to help you?”

“I don't know.” But she didn't think so.

Molly was looking at her pointedly as she asked the next question. “Do you have any friends at all, Grace? Anyone you could turn to?” She suspected long before Grace spoke that she didn't. If she had, maybe none of this would have happened. Molly knew without asking her that she was isolated. She had no one in her life except her parents. And they had done enough to ruin anyone's life, or at least her father had. At least that was what she suspected. “Did your parents have any friends you were close to?”

“No,” Grace said thoughtfully. They really didn't have any close friends, they didn't want anyone to get too close to their dark secret. “My father knew everyone. And my mom was kind of shy …” And she had never wanted anyone to know that she was being beaten. “Everyone loved my dad, but he wasn't really close to anyone.” That in itself made Molly wonder about him.

“And what about you? Any real close friends at school?” Grace only shook her head in answer. “Why not?”

“I don't know. No time, I guess. I had to go home and take care of my mom every day,” Grace said, still not looking at her.

“Is that really why, Grace? Or did you have a secret?”

“Of course not.”

But Molly wouldn't let go of her. Her voice reached out to Grace and pulled her toward her. “He raped you that night, didn't he?” Grace's eyes flew open wide, and she looked at Molly, and hoped the young doctor didn't see her tremble.

“No … of course not …” But her breath caught, and she found herself praying she wouldn't have an asthma attack. This woman already knew too much without that. “How can you say such a thing?” She tried to look shocked but she was only terrified. What if she knew? Then what? Everyone else would know their ugly secret. Even after their deaths, she still felt an obligation to hide it. It was her fault too. What would people think of her if they knew it?

“You have bruises and tears all through your vagina,” Molly said quietly, “that doesn't happen with normal intercourse. The doctor who examined you said it looked like you had been raped by half a dozen men, or one very brutal man. He did an awful lot of damage. That's why you shot him, isn't it?” She didn't answer. “Was that the first time, after your mother's funeral?” She looked pointedly at Grace as though she expected an answer, and the teenager's eyes filled with tears that spilled down her cheeks in spite of all of her best efforts to stop them.

“I didn't … no … he wouldn't do a thing like that … everyone loved my dad …”

She had killed him, and all she could do now was defend his memory so no one would ever know what he had really been like.

“Did your father love you, Grace? Or did he just use you?”

“Of course he loved me,” she said woodenly, furious at herself for crying.

“He raped you that night, didn't he?” But this time, Grace didn't answer. She didn't even deny it “How often had he done that before? You have to tell me.” Her life depended on it now, but Molly didn't want to say that.

“No, I don't. I'm not going to tell you anything, and you can't prove it,” Grace said angrily.

“Why are you defending him?” Molly asked in total frustration. “Don't you understand what's happening? You've been charged with murdering him, they could even decide to charge you with murder in the first degree, if they can get away with it, and they think you have a motive. You have to do everything you can to save yourself. I'm not telling you to lie, I'm telling you to tell the truth, Grace. If he raped you, if he hurt you, if you were abused, then there were extenuating circumstances. It could reduce the charges to manslaughter or even self-defense, and it changes everything. Do you really want to go to prison for the next twenty years in order to preserve the reputation of a man who did that to you? Grace, think about it, you have to listen to me … you have to hear me.” But Grace knew that her mother would never have forgiven her for sullying her father's memory. It was her father whom Ellen had loved so blindly, and needed desperately. It was he she had always wanted to protect, even if it meant holding her thirteen-year-old daughter down for him. She wanted to make him love her at any price, even if the price was her own daughter.

“I can't tell you anything,” Grace said woodenly.

“Why? He's dead. You can't hurt him by telling the truth. You can only hurt yourself by not telling it. I want you to think about that. You can't be loyal to a dead man, or to someone who hurt you very badly. Grace …” She reached out and touched her hand across the table from where she sat. She had to make her understand, she had to pull her out from the place where she was hiding. “I want you to think about this tonight. And I'm going to come back and see you tomorrow. Whatever you tell me, I'll promise not to tell anyone else. But I want you to be honest with me about what happened. Will you think about that?” Grace didn't move for a long time, and then she nodded. She'd think about it, but she wasn't going to tell her.

Molly left her that night with a heavy heart. She knew exactly what was going on, and she couldn't seem to bridge the gap with Grace. She had worked with abused children and wives for years, and all their loyalty was always to their abusers. It took everything she had to break that bond, but usually she was successful. But so far, Grace wasn't giving an inch. Molly was getting nowhere.

She stopped in the detective's office to look at the hospital report and the Polaroids again, and it made her feel sick when she saw them. Stan Dooley came in while she was reading the report, and he was surprised to see her still at work, fourteen hours after she had started.

“Don't you have anything else to do at night?” he said amiably. “A girl like you ought to be out with some guy, or hanging out in bars, looking for her future.”

“Yeah,” she laughed at him, her long blond hair hanging invitingly over her shoulder. “Just like you, huh, Stan? You were here the same time I was this morning.”

“I have to. You don't. I want to retire in ten years. You can be a shrink until you're a hundred.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” She closed the file and put it on his desk with a sigh. She was getting nowhere. “Did you see the hospital report on the Adams girl?”

“Yeah. So?” He looked unmoved.

“Oh come on, don't tell me you can't figure it out.” She looked angry at the casual shrug of his shoulders.

“What's to figure? So she got laid, nobody says she got raped. And who says it was her father?”

“Bullshit. Who do you think laid her? Six gorillas from the zoo? Did you see the bruises, and read what he found internally?”

“So she likes it lively. Look, she's not complaining. She isn't saying that she was raped. What do you want from me?”

“Some sense for chrissake,” she blazed at him. “She's a seventeen-year-old kid, and he was her father. She's protecting him, or some misguided illusion about saving his reputation. But I can tell you one thing, that girl was defending herself, and you know it.”

“‘Protecting him.’ She blew the guy away. What kind of protection is that? I think your theory is real nice, Doctor, but it won't hold water. All we know is that she may have had a little rough sex. There is nothing to prove that she had it with her father, or that he was roughing her up. And even if, God help me, she did fuck her old man, that's still no reason to shoot him. That still doesn't make it self-defense, and you know that too. There's nothing to prove that her father hurt her. She's not even saying that. You are.”

“How the hell do you know what he did?” she shouted at him, but he looked unmoved. He didn't believe a word of what she was saying. “Is this what she told you, or are you just guessing? I'm looking at the evidence, and a seventeen-year-old girl who is isolated and so removed she's practically on another planet.”

“Let me tell you a little secret, Dr. York. This is not a Martian. She's a shooter. Simple as that. And you want to know what I think, with all your exams, and fancy theories? I think probably she went out and got laid that night after her mother's funeral, and her old man thought it wasn't right. So she came home and he gave her hell, and she didn't like it, got pissed off, and killed him. And the fact that he was jacking off in bed is pure coincidence. You can't take a guy that the whole community knows as a good guy and convince anyone that he raped his daughter and she shot him in self-defense. As a matter of fact, I talked to his partner today, and he said pretty much the same thing I did. I didn't share the evidence with him, but I asked him what he thought must have happened. The idea that John Adams would do anything to harm his child, and I didn't even say what you thought it might have been, horrified him. He said the guy adored his wife, and his kid. He said he lived for them, never cheated on his wife, spent every night with them, and was devoted to his wife till the day she died. He said that the kid was always a little strange, very unfriendly and withdrawn, didn't have many friends. And wasn't that keen on her father.”

“There goes your theory that she was out with her boyfriend.”

“She doesn't have to have a regular to go out and give it away for half an hour, does she?”

“You just don't see it, do you?” Molly said angrily. How could he be so blind and stubborn? He was buying the guy's reputation, without even looking to see what was behind it.

“What am I supposed to see, Molly? We've got a seventeen-year-old girl who shot and killed her father. Maybe she was odd, maybe she was crazy. Maybe she was scared of him, what the hell do I know? But the fact is she shot him. She isn't saying he raped her, she isn't saying anything. You are.”

“She's too scared, she's too afraid that someone is going to find out their secret.” She had seen it a hundred times. She just knew it.

“Did it ever occur to you that maybe she doesn't have a secret? Maybe this is all your invention because you feel sorry for her and want to get her off, what do I know?”

“Not much, from the sound of it,” she answered him tardy. “I didn't invent that report, or the photographs of the bruises on her thighs and buttocks.”

“Maybe she fell down the stairs. All I know is that you're the only one yelling rape, and that's not good enough, not with a guy like him. You're just not going to sell it.”

“What about her father's partner? Is he going to defend her?”

“I doubt it. He asked about bail, and I said it's not likely in a murder case, unless they reduce it to manslaughter, but I doubt that. He said it was probably just as well, because she had nowhere to go now anyway. She has no other relatives. And he doesn't want to take responsibility for her. He's a bachelor, and he's not prepared to take her in. He said he didn't feel right defending her. Said he just couldn't and we should get a public defender for her. I can't say that I blame him. He was obviously pretty upset about losing his partner.”

“Why can't he use the father's funds to pay for a private attorney?” She didn't like the sound of it, but Grace had guessed that Frank Wills wouldn't help her. And she'd been right, much to Molly's disappointment. She wanted him to help her. Molly wanted Grace to get a top-notch attorney.

“He didn't volunteer to get an attorney for her,” Stan Dooley explained. “He said that John Adams was his closest friend, but apparently he owed him a bunch of money. The wife's long illness pretty much wiped them out. All he has left is his share of the law practice and their house, and it's mortgaged to the hilt. Wills doesn't think there'll be much left of Adams's estate, and he certainly wasn't volunteering attorney fees out of his own pocket. I'll call the P.D. office tomorrow morning.”

Molly nodded, shocked again by how alone Grace was. It wasn't unusual among young people accused of crimes, but with a girl like her, it should have been different. She came from a nice middle-class family, her father was a respected citizen, they had a nice home, and they were well known in the community. It seemed extraordinary to the young doctor that Grace should find herself completely abandoned. And although it was unusual, she decided to call Frank Wills herself that night and jotted down his number.

“What's Dr. Kildare up to these days,” Dooley teased her again as she started to leave, referring to her boyfriend.

“He's busy saving lives. He works even longer hours than I do.” She smiled at Dooley in spite of herself. He drove her buggy sometimes, but most of the time he had a good heart and she liked him.

“Too bad, he'd keep you out of a lot of trouble if he'd take a little time off now and then.”

“Yeah, I know.” She smiled, and left him, tossing a tweed jacket over her shoulder. She was a pretty girl, but more importantly, she was good at what she did. Even the cops she knew admitted that she was smart, and a pretty good shrink, even if she did come up with some pretty wild theories.

Later, when Molly called Frank Wills from home that night, she was shocked by his callousness. As far as he was concerned, Grace Adams deserved to hang for killing her father.

“Nicest guy in the world,” Wills said, sounding deeply moved, and Molly wasn't sure why, but she didn't believe him. “Ask anyone. There isn't a person in this town who didn't love him … except her … I still can't believe she shot him.” He had spent the morning arranging a memorial for him. The whole town would be there undoubtedly, except Grace. But this time, there would be no gathering at the house, no family there for John. All he had was his wife and daughter. Wills's voice broke when he said as much to Molly.

“Do you think there's any reason why she would have shot him, Mr. Wills?” Molly asked politely when he'd regained his composure. She didn't want to get him more upset than he was, but maybe he would have some insight.

“Money, probably. She probably thought he was leaving everything to her, and even if he didn't have a will, it would all go to her as his only survivor. What she didn't figure, naturally, was that legally she couldn't inherit from him if she killed him. I guess she didn't know that.”

“Was there much to leave?” Molly asked innocently, not referring to what she had heard from Detective Dooley. “I imagine his share of the law practice must be quite valuable. You're both such respected attorneys.” She knew that he would like that, and he did, he warmed considerably to the subject after that, and told her more than he should have.

“There's enough. But he owes most of it to me anyway. He always told me he'd leave his share of the practice to me when he died, not that he planned to check out as early as this, poor devil.”

“Did he leave that in writing?”

“I don't know. But it was an agreement between us, and I lent him some money from time to time, to help with expenses for Ellen.”

“What about the house?”

“He's got a mortgage on it, it's a nice place. But not nice enough to get shot for.”

“Do you really think a girl her age would shoot her father for a house, Mr. Wills? That sounds a little farfetched, doesn't it?”

“Maybe not. Maybe she figured it was enough to pay for some fancy eastern college.”

“Is that what she wanted to do?” Molly sounded surprised. Somehow Grace didn't seem that ambitious, she seemed far more homebound, almost too much so.

“I don't know what she wanted to do, Doctor. I just know that she killed her father and she ought to pay for it. She sure as hell shouldn't profit from it, the law is right on that score. She won't get a dime of his money now, not the practice, not the house, nothing.” Molly was startled by his venom, and she wondered if his motives were entirely pure, or if in fact he had his own reasons for being pleased that Grace was out of the way now.

“And who will get it, if she doesn't? Are there other relatives? Did he have other family somewhere?”

“No, just the girl. But he owed me a lot. I told you, I helped him out whenever I could, and we practiced together for twenty years. You can't just pass over that like it was nothing.”

“Of course not. I understand completely,” she said soothingly. She understood a lot better than he thought, or wanted her to, and she didn't like it. She thanked him for his time after that, and spent a long time thinking about Grace that night, and when her boyfriend came in from work at the hospital she told him all about it. He was exhausted from a twenty-hour day in the emergency room, which had been an endless parade of gunshot wounds and car accidents, but he listened anyway. Molly was all wound up about the case.

She and Richard Haverson had lived together for two years, and talked from time to time about getting married, but somehow they never did. But they got on well, and were familiar with each other's work. For both of them, it was the perfect arrangement. And he was as tall and lanky and blond and good-looking as she was.

“Sounds like the kid is screwed, if you ask me, there's no one to take her part in this, and it sounds like the father's partner wants her out of the way anyway, so he can get whatever money is left. Not a great situation from the sound of it. And if she won't admit that the old man was raping her, then what more can you say?” he said, looking tired, and she sipped coffee and stared at him in frustration.

“I'm not sure yet. But I'm trying to think of something. I wish I could get her to tell me what really happened. I mean, hell, she didn't just wake up in the middle of the night, find a gun in her hand and decide to shoot him. They found her nightgown torn in half on the floor, but she wouldn't explain that either. All the evidence is there, for God's sake. She just won't help us use it.”

“You'll get to her eventually,” he said confidently, but this time Molly looked worried. She had never had such a hard time reaching anyone. The girl was completely fossilized into a state of self-destruction. Her parents had all but destroyed her, and she still wouldn't give them up. It was amazing. “I've never seen you lose one yet.” He smiled at her and touched the long blond hair as he went out to the kitchen for a beer. They both worked like demons, but it was a good relationship for both of them, and they were happy with each other.

And at six o'clock the next morning when they got up, Grace was already on her mind again. On her way to work, Molly glanced at her watch and thought about going back to see her. But there was something else she wanted to do first. She went to her office and made some notes for the file, and then she went to the public defenders’ office at eight-thirty.

“Is David Glass in yet?” she asked the receptionist. He was the junior attorney on the team, but Molly had worked on two cases with him recently, and she thought he was terrific. He was unorthodox and tough and smart. He was a street kid from New York who had clawed his way out of the ghettos of the South Bronx, and he wasn't going to give in to anyone. But at the same time, he had a heart of gold, and he fought like a lion for his clients. He was exactly what Grace Adams needed.

“I think he's in the back somewhere,” the receptionist said. She recognized Molly from other cases she'd been on and she waved her back into the inner sanctum.

Molly wandered the hallways looking for him for a few minutes, and then she found him in the office library, sitting next to a stack of books, sipping a cup of coffee. He looked up as she walked next to him, and smiled when he saw her.

“Hi, Doc. How's biz?”

“The usual. How's by you?”

“I'm still working on getting the latest ax murderers off. You know, same ol same ol’.”

“Want a case?”

“Are you assigning them now?” He looked amused. He was shorter than she was, and he had dark brown eyes and curly black hair, and in his own way, he was nice-looking. What he had most of all was personality, which overcame any shortcomings he might have had in terms of looking like Clark Gable. He had sex appeal too. And from the way his eyes danced when he talked to her, it was obvious that he liked Molly. “When did they let you start dishing out cases?”

“Okay, okay. I just wanted to know if you were up for one. I'm working on it, and they're going to assign a P.D. today. I'd really like to work on it with you.”

“I'm flattered. How bad is it?”

“Bad enough. Possibly murder one. Could even be the death penalty. A seventeen-year-old girl shot her father.”

“Nice. I always love cases like that. What did she do? Take his head off with a shotgun, or have her boyfriend do it for her?” He had seen plenty of ugliness in New York, out here, though, things were a lot tamer.

“Nothing quite so picturesque.” She looked at him with a worried frown, thinking of Grace. “It's complicated. Can we go talk somewhere?”

“Sure.” He looked intrigued. “If you're willing to stand on my shoulders, we can go talk in my office.” His cubicle was barely bigger than his desk, but at least it had a door and some privacy, and she followed him there, as he juggled his books and his coffee. “So what's the story?” he asked as she sat in the room's only extra chair and sighed. She really wanted him to take it. And for the moment, Grace was doing absolutely nothing to help herself. She really needed someone as good as David.

“She shot him at slightly less than two-inch range with a handgun that she says she ‘found in her hand,’ and then it went off, and she shot him. According to her, for no reason in the world. They were just one happy family, except for the fact that they'd buried her mother that day. Other than that, no problems.”

“Is she sane?” He looked interested, but only mildly. Most of all, he loved a challenge. And he liked kids in particular. All of which was why Molly wanted him to take the case. He was the only chance Grace had. Without him, she was lost, if she even cared. But Molly cared, a lot, she wasn't sure why, but she did. Maybe because Grace seemed so beaten and so helpless. She had already given up everything, all hope, even her own life seemed unimportant to her. And Molly wanted to change that.

“She's sane,” Molly confirmed to him, “deeply depressed and not without neurosis, but I think for good reason. I think he was abusing her, sexually and otherwise.” She described the kind of internal damage and bruises they had found, and her state of mind when Molly saw her. “She swears he never touched her. I don't believe her. I think he raped her that night, and I think he'd done it before, maybe even for a long time, and maybe without her mother there, she'd lost her only protection and she panicked. He did it again, and this time she lost it and shot him. He had to be right on top of her for her to shoot him at that range. Think of it, if he'd been lying on top of her, raping her, and she had the gun, it would have been just that kind of range when she shot him.”

“Has anyone else thought of that?” He was intrigued now. “What do the cops think?”

“That's the problem. They don't want to hear it. Her father was Mr. Perfect Community Loved by Everyone Attorney. No one wants to believe that the guy might have been sleeping with his own daughter, or worse, forcing her. Maybe he held the gun on her, for all we know, and she got it away from him. But something has gone on in that girl's life, and she just won't tell me. She has no friends, no life outside of school. No one seems to know much of anything about her. She went to school, and she went home, and took care of her dying mother. The mother died a few days ago, and now the father's gone, and that's it. No relatives, no friends, just an entire town who swears the guy is the most decent man they ever knew and couldn't possibly have hurt his daughter.”

“And you don't believe them? Why not?” After working two cases with her, he had learned to trust her instincts.

“Because she won't tell me anything, and I know she's lying. She's terrified. And she's still defending him, as though he's going to come back from the dead and get her.”

“She won't say anything?”

“Not really. She is frozen in pain, it's written all over her. Something terrible has happened to that girl, and she won't give it up.”

“Not yet,” he smiled at her, “but she will. I know you better than that. It's early days yet.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, but we don't have much time. The arraignment is today, and they're going to assign a P.D. to her case this morning.”

“No family attorney, or associate of her old man to take care of it for her? I would think someone would turn up.” He looked surprised as the young doctor shook her head.

“His law partner claims that he was just too close to her father to want to defend her, since she's the killer. He also says there's no money left, because of the mother's illness. Just the house, and the law practice. And he might just inherit all of it, now that she can't, and he claims her father owed him quite a bit of money. He's not offering ten cents to help in her defense, which is why I came to see you. I don't like the guy, and I don't trust him. He portrays the deceased as a saint, and claims he will never forgive the daughter for what she did. He thinks she ought to get the death penalty for it.”

“At seventeen? Nice guy.” He looked seriously intrigued now.

“And what does our girl say to all this? Does she know this guy won't help her, and may even take everything her father had, against his supposed debts?”

“Not really. But she seems ready to go down in flames for the cause, as long as she keeps her mouth shut. I think she is deluding herself that she owes that to her parents.”

“Sounds like she needs a shrink as much as an attorney.” He smiled at Molly. He liked the idea of working on another case with her. She was great to work with, and now and then he cherished a small hope that a romance would spring up between them, but it never had, and a part of him knew it never would. But it was fun to imagine sometimes. And his hopes never got in the way of their work together.

“What do you think?” Molly asked him with a worried look.

“I think she's in big trouble. What are they actually charging her with?”

“I'm not sure yet. They were talking about murder one, but I think they're having a hard time proving it. There's no real ‘inheritance’ there to provide her with a motive for premeditation, just a house and a pretty good-sized mortgage on it, and the law practice which the partner claims was promised to him anyway.”

“Yeah, but she didn't necessarily know that. And she didn't necessarily know that she couldn't inherit from her father if she killed him. They could try for murder one, if they really want to.”

“If she denies any intent to kill him, they might give her a break, and charge her with second-degree,” Molly said hopefully. “It would carry a sentence of fifteen years to life in prison. She could be forty or more by the time she was free again, if she was convicted. But at least it's not the death penalty. They've already said they're going to prosecute her as an adult, and there was some talk about the death penalty. If she'd just tell us what happened, you might even be able to reduce it to manslaughter.”

“Shit. You really did bring me a peach, didn't you?”

“Can you get assigned to it?”

“Maybe. They probably figure it's a loser anyway, with her father so prominent in the community she'll never get a fair trial here. You'd almost have to ask for a change of venue. Actually, I'd like to try it.”

“Do you want to meet her first?”

“Are you kidding?” He laughed. “Have you seen what I defend here? I don't need an introduction. I'd just like to know I have a chance. It would be nice if she'd talk to us, and tell us what really happened. If she doesn't, she could be facing a life sentence, or worse. She's got to tell us what happened,” he said earnestly, and Molly nodded.

“Maybe she will, if she trusts you,” Molly said hopefully. “I was going to go back and see her this afternoon. I still have to finish my evaluation for the department, as to whether or not she's competent to stand trial. But there's really no question of it. I was just dragging my feet a little bit because I wanted to keep seeing her. I think she needs some real live human contact.” Molly looked genuinely worried about her.

“I'll go over there with you today, if they give me the case. Let me see what I can do first. Call me at lunchtime.” He jotted down Grace's name and the case number, and Molly thanked him before she left. She was immensely relieved to think that he might be Grace's attorney. It was the best thing that could possibly happen to her. If there was any chance of saving her at all, David Glass would find a way to do it.

Molly didn't have time to call him back until after two o'clock and when she did, he was out of the office. And it was four before she had time to try again, but she was worried about what had happened. She had had a hellish day doing rounds, making evaluations for the courts, and working with a fifteen-year-old who had tried to commit suicide and failed, but left himself a quadriplegic. He had jumped off a bridge into concrete, and in this case the stamina of youth had betrayed him. Even she had to wonder if he wouldn't have been better off dead than spending the next sixty years able only to wiggle his nose and his ears. Even his speech had been affected. She called David again at the end of the day, and apologized for the delay.

“I just got back myself,” David explained.

“What did they say?”

“Good luck. They claim it's open-and-shut. She wanted his money, what little he had, according to them, but she didn't know how badly her mother's illness had eaten up their savings or that she'd never inherit if she killed him. They're holding to the theory that it was premeditated, or at the very least that they had a fight, she got mad, had a tantrum and killed him. According to them, it's all very simple. Murder one, at worst. Murder two, at best. Anywhere from twenty to life, or the death penalty if they get really crazy.”

“She's just a kid … she's a girl …” Molly had tears in her eyes as she thought of it, and then reproached herself for getting too involved, but she just couldn't help it. There was something so wrong here. “What about the defense?”

“I just don't know. There's no evidence that he attacked her or endangered her life, unless your rape theories turn out to be correct. Give me a chance, kid. They only assigned me the case two hours ago, and I haven't even met her yet. They postponed the arraignment till I could see her at least. It's at nine o'clock tomorrow morning. I thought I'd go over there at five if I can get out of here by then. Want to come? It might speed things up and break the ice, since she knows you.”

“I'm not sure she likes me though. I keep pushing her about her father and she doesn't like it.”

“She's going to like the death penalty even less. I suggest you meet me there at five-thirty. Can you make it?”

“I'll be there. And David?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks for taking it.”

“We'll do our best. See you at five-thirty at Central.”

And Molly knew as they hung up that they were not only going to have to do their best, but pray for a miracle, if they were going to help her.

Chapter 3

Molly York and David Glass met outside the jail promptly at five-thirty, and went upstairs to see Grace. David had gotten all the reports from the police by then, and Molly had brought her notes and the ones from the hospital to show him. He glanced at them as they rode upstairs, and raised an eyebrow when he saw the pictures.

“It looks like someone hit her with a baseball bat,” he said as he looked at them, and glanced at Molly.

“She says nothing happened.” Molly shook her head, and hoped that Grace was willing to open up to David. Her life literally depended on it, and she still wasn't sure that Grace understood that.

They were led into the attorneys’ room, with the two separate doors, and the table and four chairs. It was where Molly had met Grace before and at least it would be familiar to her.

They sat down for a few minutes and waited for her. David lit a cigarette and offered one to Molly but she declined it. It was a full five minutes before the guard appeared at the window in the door to the jail, as the heavy door was unlocked, and Grace stood looking at them hesitantly. She was wearing the same jeans and T-shirt. There was no one to bring her clothes, and she had nothing else with her. All she had was what she had worn the night she had killed her father and been arrested.

He watched her carefully as she entered the room, she was tall and thin and graceful, and in some ways she looked young and shy, but when she turned to look at him, he saw that her eyes were a dozen years older. There was something so sad and defeated there, and she moved like a doe about to dash away into the forest. She stood staring at them, not sure what to make of their visit. She had spent four hours with the police that day, answering questions, and she was exhausted. They had advised her that she had the right to have an attorney present at the questioning but she had already admitted to shooting her father, and didn't think there was any harm in answering their questions.

She had gotten the message that David Glass was going to be her attorney, and he would be over to see her later. She had heard nothing from Frank Wills, and she still hadn't called him. There was no one to call, no one she could have turned to. She had read the papers that day, the front page and several articles were devoted to stories about the murder, about her father's admirable life, his law practice, and what he had meant to so many. It said relatively little about her, except that she was seventeen, went to Jefferson High, and had killed him. Several theories had been offered as to what must have occurred, but no one ever came close to what had really happened.

“Grace, this is David Glass.” Molly broke the silence by introducing them. “He's from the public defenders’ office, and he's going to represent you.”

“Hello, Grace,” he said quietly. He was watching her face, he hadn't taken his eyes off hers since she'd entered the room, and it was easy to see that she was desperately frightened. But in spite of it, she was polite and gracious when she shook his hand. He could feel her hand shaking in his own as soon as he touched her fingers. And when she spoke, he could see that she was a little breathless, and he remembered Molly's comment about her asthma. “We've got some work to do here.” She only nodded in answer. “I read your files this afternoon. It's not looking so good for the moment. And mostly what I'm going to need from you is information. What happened and why, whatever you can remember. Afterwards, we'll get an investigator to check things out. We'll do whatever we have to.” He tried to sound encouraging, and hoped she wasn't too frightened to listen.

“There's nothing to check out,” she said quietly, sitting very straight in one of the four chairs. “I killed my father.” She looked him right in the eye as she said it.

“I know you did,” he said, seeming unimpressed by the admission, and watching her intently. He knew what Molly had seen in her. She looked like a nice girl, and she looked as though someone had beaten the life out of her. She was so remote, one almost wondered if one could touch her. She was more like an apparition than a real person. There was nothing ordinary about her. Nothing to suggest that she was a seventeen-year-old girl, a teenager, none of the life or ebullience one would have expected. “Do you remember what happened?” he asked her quietly.

“Most of it,” she admitted. There were parts of it that were still vague, like exactly when she had taken the gun out of her mother's night table. But she remembered feeling it in her hand, and then squeezing the trigger. “I shot him.”

“Where did you get the gun?” His questions seemed very matter-of-fact, and oddly unthreatening as they sat there. He had an easy style, and Molly thanked her lucky stars again that he had gotten the case assigned to him. She just hoped he could help her.

“It was in my mother's nightstand.”

“How did you get it? Did you just reach over and take it?”

“Sort of. I just kind of took it out.”

“Was your father surprised when you did that?” He made it sound like the most mundane question, and she nodded.

“He didn't see it at first, but he was surprised when he did … and then he tried to grab it and it went off.” Her eyes glazed as she remembered, and then she closed them.

“You must have been standing pretty close to him, huh? About like this?” He indicated the three feet between them. He knew she had been closer than that, but he wanted to hear her answer.

“No … uh … kind of … closer. …” He nodded, as though her answer were ordinary too, and Molly tried to feign disinterest, but she was fascinated by how quickly Grace had started talking to him, and how much she seemed to trust him. It was as though she knew that she could. She was much less defensive than she had been with Molly.

“How close do you think? Like a foot maybe? Maybe closer?”

“Pretty close … closer …” she said softly, and then looked away from him, knowing what he must be thinking. Molly must have told him her suspicions. “Very close.”

“How come? What were you doing?”

“We were talking,” she said hoarsely, sounding breathless again, and he knew she was lying.

“What were you talking about?”

His question and the ease of it caught her off guard and she stammered as she answered. “I … uh … I guess, my mother.” He nodded as though that were the most natural thing, and then leaned back in his chair pensively and looked at the ceiling. He spoke to her then, without looking at her, and he could feel his heart pound in his ears as he addressed her.

“Did your mom know what he'd been doing to you, Grace?” He said it so gently, it brought tears to Molly's eyes, and then slowly he looked at Grace, and there were tears in her eyes too. “It's okay to tell me, Grace. No one's ever going to know, except us, but I have to know the truth if I'm going to help you. Did she know?”

Grace stared at him, wanting to deny it again, wanting to hide from them, but she couldn't anymore, she just couldn't. She nodded, and the tears spilled from her eyes, and ran slowly down her cheeks. As he watched her, he took her hand and squeezed it. “It's okay, Grace. It's okay. You couldn't do anything to stop it.” And then she nodded again, and an anguished sob escaped her. She wanted to have the courage not to tell them anything, but they were all hounding her, the doctor, the police, now him, and they asked so many questions. And for some reason she herself didn't know, she trusted David. She liked Molly too, but it was David whom she wanted to turn to.

“She knew.” They were the saddest words he had ever heard, and without knowing John Adams, he wanted to kill him.

“Was she very angry at him? Was she angry at you?”

But Grace stunned both of them when she shook her head again. “She wanted me to … she said I had to …” she choked on the words and had to battle her asthma,“… had to take care of him, and be nice to him … and … she wanted me to,” she said again, her eyes brimming with tears, and pleading with them to believe her. They both did, and their hearts went out to her as they watched her.

“How long did it go on?” he said softly.

“A long time.” She looked drained as she glanced back at him. She looked so tired and frail, he almost wondered if she would survive it. “Four years … she made me do it the first time.”

“What was different that night?”

“I don't know … I just couldn't anymore … she was gone. I didn't have to do it for her anymore … he wanted me to do it in her bed … I'd never done that before … and … he … he hit me … and did other things.” She didn't want to tell them all that he'd done to her, but they knew it anyway from the exam and the photos. “I remembered the gun … I just wanted him to stop … to get off of me … I didn't really mean to shoot him … I don't know. I just wanted to stop him.” And she had. Forever. “I didn't know I'd kill him.” But she had told them what had happened at least. And in a way, she felt relieved. And exhausted. It was different from telling the police. She knew that Molly and David wouldn't tell anyone, and they believed her. She knew that the police never would. They thought her father was perfect. They all knew him professionally and some even played golf with him at his club. It seemed like everyone in town knew him and loved him.

“You're a brave girl,” David said quietly, “and I'm glad you told me.” It all added up exactly the way Molly had said, only it was even worse, the mother had made her do it. At thirteen, when it started. It made him feel sick to think of it. The guy was a real sick bastard. He deserved to be shot. But now the big question was if he could convince a jury that Grace had been defending herself after four years of hell at her father's hands. Molly hadn't been able to convince the police, they were too sold on John Adams's public image, He couldn't help wondering if a jury would suffer from the same delusions.

“Would you tell the police what you told me?” David asked her calmly, but she was quick to shake her head that she wouldn't.

“Why not?”

“They won't believe me anyway, and … I can't do that to my parents.”

“Your parents are dead, Grace,” he said firmly, and she would be too if she didn't help herself and tell the truth. Self-defense was her only chance. They had to prove now that she had felt her life was in danger. And even if they didn't believe that, the worst they could make of it was manslaughter, not murder. “We're going to have to talk about this. You're going to have to tell someone, other than me, or the doctor here, what really happened.”

“I can't. What'll they think of me? It's so awful.” She started to cry again, and Molly got up and put her arms around her.

“It makes them look awful, not you, Grace. It shows you as you are, a victim. You can't pay for their sins by staying silent. You have to speak up, David's right.” They talked about it for a long time, and she said she'd think about it, but she still didn't look convinced that telling the whole truth was the best solution. And when they finally left her at the jail, Molly was still amazed that David had gotten her to open up so quickly.

“Maybe we should switch jobs, except that I can't do what you do either,” Molly had said glumly. She felt like a failure for not getting Grace to trust her.

“Don't be so hard on yourself. The only reason she talked to me is because you had softened her up first. She needed to get it off her chest. It's been festering for four years. It has to be a relief now.” Molly nodded in agreement, and then David shook his head ruefully. “Of course, killing him had to be a relief too. Damn shame she didn't do it sooner. What a sick son-ofabitch he was, while the whole town thinks he's a saint, the perfect husband and father. Makes you retch, doesn't it? It's a wonder she's as sane as she is.” She was damaged and scarred, but she was still there, and she hadn't lost her grip yet. He didn't want to think though of what it would be like for her for twenty years in prison. But the next morning, when David saw her before the arraignment, Grace still refused to tell the police what had happened. The best he could do was convince her to plead not guilty at the arraignment. The charges were murder, with intent to kill, which would carry the maximum sentence, possibly even the death penalty if the jury imposed it.

The judge refused to set bail, which was irrelevant anyway, because there would have been no one to pay it. And David became the attorney of record.

And for the next several days, David did everything he could to try to convince her to tell the police that her father had raped her, had been for years. But she just wouldn't. And after two incredibly frustrating weeks, he threatened to throw in the towel. Molly was still visiting her frequently, on her own time now. Her report for the court had already been completed. She had judged Grace to be sane, and fully competent to stand trial, in her opinion.

David took her through the preliminary hearing, and he had his one lone investigator talking to everyone in town, hoping that someone, anyone, had suspected what John Adams was doing to his daughter. People's reactions ranged from mild surprise to total outrage at the suggestion, and absolutely no one thought him capable of it, and they said so. Instead they thought it was a crazy theory invented by the defense to justify what many of them referred to as Grace's cold-blooded killing of her father.

David himself went to talk to teachers at her school, to see if they had suspected anything, but they had seen nothing either. They described Grace as awkward and shy, very withdrawn, even as a young child, to the point of being antisocial, and she had virtually had no friends at all. Ever since her father had started having sex with her, she had been afraid that everyone would know, so she shunned them all. It was obvious that teachers thought she was a little strange, but she was polite and a good student. Most of them had been aware of how ill her mother was and thought that had affected her too, which it had, but not as much as her father's sexual demands on her. Several of them had mentioned the severe asthma that had only begun to affect her at the onset of her mother's illness.

Oddly enough, it didn't surprise any of them that she had done something so outrageous. They thought she was strange, and she had obviously “snapped,” as they put it, when her mom died.

It was easy to construct it that way, and to think what the police did, that she had been after an inheritance, or that she had some kind of a temper tantrum, or a fight with him. It was difficult for anyone to believe that John Adams had led a life of utter perversion for four years, at the expense of his wife and daughter. And even more impossible for anyone to believe that he had beaten his wife for years before that. But no matter how little corroborating evidence there was, David never doubted her for a moment. Her story had the ring of truth, and throughout the summer he worked with her, trying to find evidence, and build a case to defend her. She had finally agreed to tell her story to the police, but they had refused to believe her. They thought it was a clever defense fashioned by her attorney and attempts to plea bargain with the prosecution on her behalf had gotten him nowhere. Like the police, the prosecution wouldn't buy it. In a moment of desperation, David had gone to the D.A., fearing a life sentence or the death penalty for her, but the D.A. wouldn't budge. He didn't believe her story either. There was nothing left to do now except take the same story to the jury. The trial was set for the first week in September.

She turned eighteen in jail.

She was in a cell by herself by then, and the newspapers had been hounding her all summer. They would show up at the jail, and ask for interviews. And now and then the guards would let them in to take her picture. The reporters would slip them a crisp bill or two and the next thing she knew they were outside her cell, with their flashbulbs. Once they even got a picture of her on the toilet. And the whole story she'd told the police had long since come out in the papers. It was everything she hadn't wanted. She felt she had betrayed herself, and her parents, but David had convinced her it was her only hope to stay out of prison or worse, the death penalty. And even that hadn't worked. She was resigning herself to a life in prison by then, and she still wondered if she would get the death sentence in the end. It was possible, even David admitted, though he didn't like to. It would be up to the jury. He was still sure he could convince a jury that she killed her father to stop him from raping her, or even killing her. She was young, she was beautiful, she was vulnerable, and she was telling the truth, which had an undeniable ring to it. To David and Molly, there was absolutely no doubt about her story.

But the first real blow came when they were denied a change of venue. David had petitioned on the basis that there was no way she could get a fair trial in Wat-seka, people were just too prejudiced in favor of her father. The papers had been hanging her for months, embellishing the story wherever possible, and enhancing each new twist they could invent. By September, she sounded like a sex-crazed teenage monster who had spent months plotting her father's death, so she could get his money. The fact that there seemed to be almost no money there seemed to have escaped everyone's notice. They also referred to her as promiscuous, and implied that she had had sexual designs on her father, and killed him in a jealous fit. The story had been told a thousand ways, but none of them true, and all of them damaging to Grace. David couldn't imagine how they would ever get a fair shake from a jury, certainly in this town, or maybe in any other.

The selection of the jurors took a full week, and because of the seriousness of the case, and based on an impassioned petition from David, the judge agreed to sequester the jury. The judge himself was a crusty old man, who shouted at everyone from the bench, and had frequently played golf with her father. But he refused to disqualify himself on the grounds that they hadn't been close friends, and he felt he could be impartial. The only thing that encouraged David was that if they didn't get a fair trial, or a favorable verdict, he could try to get a mistrial. Or it might help them on appeal. He was already planning ahead, and he was seriously worried.

The prosecution presented their case, and it was powerfully damning. According to them, she had planned to kill her father the night of her mother's funeral, to inherit what little they had left before he could spend it, or remarry. She had had no idea that she could never inherit from him if she killed him. Photographs presented as evidence showed her father to be an attractive man, and the prosecution implied repeatedly that Grace was in love with him, her very own father. So much so that she had not only tried to seduce him that night, by tearing her nightgown in half and exposing herself to him, now that her mother was gone, but she had also gone so far as to accuse him of rape after she killed him. There was evidence that she had had intercourse that night, they explained, but nothing supported the theory that it had been with her father. And what they suspected was that she had snuck off to meet someone that night, and when her father scolded her, she had tried to seduce him, and when he turned her down, Grace then killed him.

The prosecution was asking for a verdict of murder with intent to kill, which required an indeterminate sentence in prison, or even the death penalty. Hers was a heinous crime, the prosecutor told the jury and the people in the courtroom, which included an army of reporters from all over the country, and she had to pay for it to the ultimate degree. There would be no mercy for a girl who would wantonly kill her own father, and afterwards besmirch his reputation in an attempt to save herself from prison.

It was agonizing listening to what they said about her, it was like listening to them talk about someone else, as scores of people paraded to the witness stand to praise her father. Most of them said she was either shy, or strange. And her father's law partner gave the worst testimony of all. He claimed that she had asked him repeatedly the day of the funeral about her father's financial state, and what was left, after her mother's long illness.

“I didn't want to frighten her by telling her how much he'd spent on medical bills, or how much he owed me. So I just told her he had plenty of money.” He looked unhappily at the jury then. “I guess I never should have said that. Maybe if I hadn't, he'd be alive today,” he said, looking at Grace with reproach that was palpable in the courtroom, as she stared at him in horrified amazement.

“I never said anything to him,” she whispered to David, as they sat at the defendant's table. She couldn't believe Frank had said that. She had never asked him anything about her father or his money.

“I'm sure you didn't,” David said unhappily. Molly had been right. The guy was a snake, and he was trying to get rid of Grace. David knew by then that John Adams had left everything to Frank in the event of Grace's death, or should she become incapacitated in any way, the house, the practice, and any cash he had. There wasn't much, but David suspected that there was more than Frank wanted anyone to know. And all he wanted now was to ensure that Grace would never inherit. If she was acquitted, she might still be able to appeal and maybe inherit a portion of the estate. Frank Wills wanted to be certain that didn't happen. “I believe you,” David reassured Grace again, but the problem was that no one else would. Why should they? She had killed her father, admittedly. And Frank Wills was a convincing witness.

The prosecution eventually rested their case, and then it was David's turn to bring witnesses forward to testify about her character and her behavior. But there were so few people who knew her, a few teachers, some old friends. Most people said she was shy and withdrawn, and David explained exactiy why that was, she was hiding a dark secret at home, and living a life of terror. And then he put the resident who had examined her at Mercy General on the stand. He explained in graphic detail the extent of the damage when he'd seen her.

“Could you say for certain that Miss Adams had been raped?” the prosecutor asked on cross-examination.

“Not with absolute certainty, one never can. One has to rely to some extent on the reports of the victim. But one could definitely say that there had been abusive sex over a long period of time. There were old scars of tears and damage that had been caused, and of course extensive new ones.”

“Could that kind of ‘abuse’ occur in normal sex, or sex of an unduly energetic, or even somewhat degenerate nature? In other words, if Miss Adams was masochistic in any way, or liked to be ‘punished’ by any of her supposedly various boyfriends, would it lead to the same kind of results?” he asked pointedly, with flagrant disregard for the fact that everyone who knew her said she had never gone out with anyone, or had a boyfriend.

“Yes, I guess if she liked it rough, you could say that the same damage might occur … it would have to be very rough though,” the resident said thoughtfully, and the prosecutor smiled evilly at the jury.

“I guess that's how some people like it.”

David objected constantly, and he did a heroic job, but it was an uphill struggle to battle their claim of premeditation. He put Molly on the witness stand, and finally, Grace herself, and she was deeply moving. In any other town, she would have convinced anyone made of stone, but not in this one. The people of Wat-seka loved John Adams, and they didn't want to believe her. People were talking about it everywhere. In stores, in restaurants. It was constantly all over the papers. Even the local TV news carried daily reports of the trial, and flashed photographs of Grace on the screen at every opportunity. It was endless.

The jury deliberated for three days, and David and Grace and Molly sat waiting in the courtroom. And when they got tired of it, they walked the halls for hours, with a guard walking quietly behind them. Grace was so used to handcuffs now, she hardly noticed when they put them on, except when they put them on too tightly on purpose. That usually happened with deputies who had known and liked her father. And it was stranger than ever to realize that if the jury acquitted her, she would suddenly be free again. She would walk away from all of this, as though it had never happened. But as the days droned on, it seemed less than likely that she would win her freedom. David tormented himself over the obstacles he'd been unable to overcome. And Molly sat and held Grace's hand. The three of them had become very close in the past two months. They were the only friends Grace had ever had, and she had slowly come not only to trust them, but to love them.

The judge had instructed the jury that they had four choices for their verdict. Murder, with premeditated intent to kill, which could call for the death penalty, if they believed that she had plotted in advance to kill her father, and knew that her acts would result in his death. Voluntary manslaughter, if she had indeed wanted to kill him, but not planned it, but believed falsely that she was justified in killing him, because she felt he was harming her at the time. Voluntary manslaughter would require a sentence of up to twenty years. Involuntary manslaughter if he had been harming her, and she had intended to hurt or resist him or cause him great bodily harm, but not kill him, but her “reckless” behavior had caused his death. Involuntary manslaughter would put her in prison for anywhere from one to ten years. And justifiable force if they believed her story that he had raped her that night and over the previous four years, and she was defending herself against his potentially life-threatening attack on her person. David had addressed them powerfully, and demanded justice in the form of a verdict of “defense with the use of justifiable force” for this innocent young girl who had suffered so much and lived a life of torture at the hands of her parents. He had made her tell all of it to the jury. That was her only hope now.

It was a late September afternoon when the jury finally came in, and Grace almost fainted when she heard the verdict.

The foreman rose solemnly, and announced that they had reached a verdict. She had been found guilty of voluntary manslaughter. They believed that John Adams had done something to her, though they were not quite sure what, and they did not believe that he had raped her, then or ever. But he had hurt her possibly, and two of the women on the jury had been insistent that even good men sometimes had dark secrets. There had been enough doubt in their minds for them to shy away from murder one and the death penalty. But the next step down from there was voluntary manslaughter, and that was how they had charged her. They believed, as the judge had explained in his instructions to them, that Grace had believed falsely, and therein lay the key, that she was justified in killing her father. Because of his glowing reputation in the community, they had been unable to accept that her father had been truly harming her, but they did believe that Grace had believed that, though incorrectly. Voluntary manslaughter carried a sentence of up to twenty years, at the judge's discretion.

And in the end, because of her extreme youth, and the fact that Grace herself had believed it to be both a crime of passion and of justifiable defense, the judge gave her two years in prison, and two years probation. Considering the possibilities, it was something of a gift, but it sounded like a lifetime to Grace as she listened to the words, and tried to force herself to understand it. In some ways, she thought death might have been easier. The judge had agreed to seal her records too, because of her age, and in the hope of not damaging her life any further when she got out of prison.

But Grace couldn't help wondering what would happen to her now. What would they do to her in prison? In jail, she had had the occasional scare, of other women threatening her, or taking her magazines or her toothpaste. Molly had been bringing things like that to her, and Frank Wills had reluctantly agreed to give her a few hundred dollars of her father's money, when David asked him.

But in jail, the women came and went in a few days, and she never felt truly in danger. She was there the longest by far, and on the worst charges. But prison would be filled with women who really had committed murder. She looked up at the judge with dry eyes and a look of sorrow. She was a person whose life had long since been lost, and she knew it. She had never had a chance from the first. For Grace, it was already over. Molly saw that look too, and she squeezed her hand as she stood beside her. Grace left the courtroom in handcuffs and leg irons this time. She was no longer merely the accused, she was a convicted felon.

That night, Molly went to see her in jail, before they transferred her to Dwight Correctional Center the next morning. There was so little she could say to her, but she didn't want Grace to give up hope. One day, there would be a new life for her. If she could just hold on till she got there. David had been to see her too, and he was beside himself over the verdict. He blamed himself for failing her, but Grace didn't blame him. It was just the way her life worked. He promised her an appeal, and he had already called Frank Wills, and he had negotiated a very unusual arrangement. With a great deal of prodding from David, Wills had agreed to let her have fifty thousand dollars of her father's money, in exchange for which she would agree never to return to Watseka, or interfere with him in any way, or anything he had inherited from her father. He was already making plans to move into their home in the coming weeks, and he told David he didn't want her to know that. As far as he was concerned, it was none of her business. He wanted no trouble from her, and he was planning to keep all of their possessions, and all of the house's furniture and contents. He had already thrown most of Grace's things away, and all he was offering her was the fifty thousand in exchange for staying away forever. He didn't want any hassles or arguments with her later. David had agreed on her behalf, knowing that one day, when she was free again, she'd have good use for the money. It was all she had now.

Molly tried desperately to encourage her that night when she saw her. “You can't give up, Grace. You just can't. You've made it this far. Now you've got to go the rest of the way. Two years isn't forever. You'll be twenty years old when you come out. It'll be time enough to start a whole new life, and put all this behind you.” David had told her the same thing. If she could just hang on, and stay as safe as possible in prison. But they all knew that wouldn't be easy.

She had to be strong. She had no choice now. But she had been strong for so long, and at times she wished she hadn't survived it. Being dead had to be easier than what she'd been through, and going to prison. She said as much that night to Molly, that she wished she had shot herself, instead of her father. It would have been so much simpler.

“What the hell does that mean?” The young psychiatrist looked outraged. She strode across the room nervously, with her eyes blazing. “Are you going to lie down and give up now? Okay, so you've got two years of this. But two years is not a lifetime. It could have been a lot worse. It's finite. You know exactly how long it will last, and when it will be over. You never knew that with your father.”

“What's it going to be like?” Grace asked with a look of terror, as the tears filled her eyes and then ran down her cheeks in two lonely rivers. Molly would have given anything to change things for her, but there just wasn't any more she could do now. All she could do was offer her love and support and friendship. She and David had both grown extremely fond of Grace. They talked about her for hours sometimes, and the injustice of all she'd been through. And now there was going to be more. She was going to have to be very strong. Molly held her in her arms that night as she cried, and prayed that somewhere she would find the strength to survive whatever she had to. Just the thought of it made Molly tremble for her.

“Will you visit me?” Grace asked in a small voice, as Molly sat next to her with an arm around her shoulders. Lately, she had talked about her constantly. Even Richard was tired of hearing about Grace, and so were all of Molly's friends and fellow doctors. Like David, she was obsessed with her, and only he seemed to understand what she was feeling. But the injustices she'd suffered for so long, the pain, and now the danger she would be in night and day were a constant worry to both David and Molly. They felt like her parents.

Molly cried when she left her too, and promised to drive to Dwight the following weekend. David was already planning to take a day off to see her, to discuss her appeal, and make sure she was as comfortable as possible in her surroundings. It didn't sound like a pleasant place, from all he'd heard, and like Molly, he would have done anything he could to change it. But their efforts hadn't been enough for her, no matter how hard they had tried or how much they cared about her. No matter what they had done for her, and they had done all they could with whatever resources had been available to them, it hadn't been enough to save her, or win her an acquittal. In all fairness to David, the cards had been stacked against her.

“Thanks for everything,” she said quietly to David the next morning when he came to say goodbye to her at seven in the morning. “You did everything you could. Thank you,” she whispered, and kissed him on the cheek, as he hugged her, willing her to survive and remain as whole as possible during her two years in prison. He knew that, if she chose to, she could do it. There was a great deal of inner strength in her. It had kept her going, and sane, during the nightmarish years with her parents.

“I wish we could have done better,” David said sadly. But at least it hadn't been murder one. He couldn't have stood it if she'd gotten the death penalty. And as he looked at her, he realized something he had never let himself think before, that if she'd been older than eighteen he'd have been in love with her. She was that kind of person, there was something beautiful and strong hidden deep inside her, and it drew him toward her like a magnet. But knowing all she'd been through, and how young she was, he couldn't allow his feelings to run wild, and he had to force himself to think of her as a little sister.

“Don't worry about it, David. I'll be fine,” she said with a quiet smile, wanting to make him feel better. She knew that a part of her had long since died, and the rest of her would just have to hang on until a higher force decided that her life was over. Dying would have been so easy for her, because she had so little to lose, so little to live for. Except, somewhere, deep inside of her, she felt that she owed it to him to survive, and to Molly. They had done so much for her, they were the first people in her whole life who had really been there. She couldn't let them down now. She couldn't let go of life yet, if only for their sakes.

Just before they led her away, she gently touched his arm, and for an odd instant, as he looked at her, he thought there was something almost saintly about her. She had accepted her fate, and her destiny. And she looked dignified beyond her years, and strangely beautiful as they led her away in handcuffs. She turned once to wave to him, and he watched her with eyes blurred by tears that ran slowly down his cheeks as soon as she left him.

Chapter 4

At eight o'clock they put her on the bus to Dwight in leg irons and chains and handcuffs. It was just routine to transfer prisoners that way, and no particular reflection on her. And oddly, she found that once she was all trussed up in chains, the guards no longer spoke to her. To them, she had ceased to be a real person. There was no one to say goodbye to her, to wish her well. Molly had come the night before, and David that morning before she left, and the guards watched her leave without a word. She'd been no trouble for them, but she was just another convict to them, a face they would soon forget, in a daily lineup of felons.

The only thing memorable about her, as far as the guards were concerned, was that her case had been written about a lot in the papers. But essentially, it was nothing special to them. She'd killed her father, so had a lot of other convicts before her. And she hadn't gotten away with it. They thought she'd been lucky to get convicted of manslaughter instead of murder. But luck wasn't something Grace had seen a lot of.

The ride to Dwight took an hour and a half from Watseka, and the bus bounced along, as her chains ratded and her ankles and wrists ached. It was an uncomfortable trip to a fearsome destination. Grace sat alone for most of the trip, and then an hour before Dwight, they picked up four more women at a local jail, and one of them was chained to the seat beside her. She was a tough-looking girl about five years older than Grace, and she looked her over with interest.

“You ever been to Dwight before?” Grace shook her head, and was less than anxious to start a conversation. She had already figured out that the more she kept to herself, the better off she'd be once she got to prison. “What are you in for?” The girl got straight to the point, as she sized Grace up. She knew her for a fish the minute she saw her. It was obvious to her that Grace had never been to prison before, and it was unlikely that she'd survive it. “How old are you, kid?”

“Nineteen,” Grace lied, adding on a year, hoping to convince her inquisitor that she was a grown-up. To her, nineteen sounded really old.

“Playing with the big girls, huh? What'd you do? Steal some candy?”

Grace just shrugged and for a short while they rode on in silence. But there was nothing to see or do. The windows of the bus were covered so they couldn't see out, and no one could look in, and it was stifling.

“You read about the big drug bust in Kankakee?” the girl asked Grace after a while, sizing her up. But there was no mystery to Grace. She was almost what she appeared to be, a very young girl who didn't belong here. What the other girl couldn't see was how much she had suffered to get there. But nothing showed on Grace's face as she looked at her, it was as though the last of her soul had been boarded up when she left David and Molly. And no one could see inside now. She intended to keep it that way, and with luck, they would leave her alone once she got to prison.

She had heard hideous stories about rape and stab-bings while she was in jail, but she forced herself not to think of that now. If she had lived through the last four years, she could make it through the next two. Somehow, some tiny shred of what Molly and David had said to her had given her hope, and in spite of all the miseries in her life, if only for their sakes, she was determined to make it. It was different now. Someone cared about her. She had two friends, the first she'd ever had. They were allies.

“No, I didn't read about the drug bust,” Grace said quiedy, and the other girl shrugged in annoyance. She had bleached blond hair that looked as though it had been sawed off at her shoulders with a butcher knife and hadn't seen a comb in decades. Her eyes were cold and hard, and Grace noticed when she glanced at her arms that she had powerful muscles.

“They tried to get me to turn state's evidence against all the big guys, but I'm no snitch. I got integrity, ya know? Besides, I ain't lookin’ to have them come lookin’ for me at Dwight and fry my ass. Know what I mean? You work out?” Her accent said she was from New York, and she was exactly who Grace expected to meet in prison. She looked angry and tough and as though she could take care of herself. She seemed anxious to talk, and she started to tell Grace about the gym she'd helped build and her job in the laundry the last time she'd been in prison. She told her about two escapes that had taken place while she was there, but they had caught all the women who'd gotten out within a day. “It ain't worth it, they stick on another five years every time you do it. How long you got? I'm in for a dime this time, I should be out in a nickel.” Five years … ten … it seemed like a lifetime to Grace as she listened. “What about you?”

“Two years,” Grace said, not volunteering anything more than that. It seemed long enough to her, although it was certainly better than ten years, or what she might have gotten with another verdict.

“That's nothin’, kid, you'll do that in a minute. So,” she grinned, and Grace could see that all her teeth along the sides were missing. “So, you're a virgin, huh?” Grace glanced at her nervously at the question. “I mean this is your first time, right?” She really was a fish, and the idea amused the older girl. This was her third time at Dwight, and she was twenty-three years old. She'd been very busy.

“Yes,” Grace answered softly.

“What'd you do? Burglary, grand theft auto, dealin’ drugs? That's me. I been doin’ cocaine since I was nine. I started dealin’ in New York when I was eleven. I spent some time in a youth facility there, what a shit place that was. I been there four times. Then I moved out here.” She had spent a lifetime in institutions. “Dwight's not bad.” She talked about it like a hotel she was going back to. “They got some good girls there, some gangs too, all that Aryan Sisterhood shit. You gotta watch out for them, and some pissed-off black girls who hateem. You stay out of their hair and you won't have no problem.”

“What about you?” Grace looked at her cautiously, but with interest. She was a phenomenon that three months ago Grace would never even have dreamed of. “What do you do when you're there?” Five years was an eternity to spend in prison. There had to be something to do there. Grace wanted to go to school. She'd already heard that there were courses you could take, other than beauty school and learning to make brooms and license plates, which was somewhat less useful. If there was any chance at all, Grace wanted to take correspondence courses from a local college.

“I don't know what I'll do,” the other girl said. “Just hang out, I guess. I ain't got nothin’ to do. I got a girlfriend who's been there since June. We were pretty tight before I got busted.”

“That's nice for you.” It would be nice to have a friend there.

“Yeah, ain't it just.” The other girl laughed, and finally introduced herself and said her name was Angela Fontino. Introductions were rare in prison. “It sure makes the time roll along when you got a cute little piece of ass in your cell, waiting for you to come home from your job in the laundry.” Those were the stories that Grace had heard, and which she dreaded. She nodded at the other girl, and didn't pursue the conversation further, but Angela was clearly amused by Grace's shyness. She loved teasing the little baby fishes. She'd been in and out of enough correctional facilities over the years that she had become very versatile about her sex life. There were even times when she actually preferred it this way.

“Sounds pretty raw to you, hey kid?” Angela grinned, showing her missing teeth in all their glory. “You get used to anything. Wait a while, by the end of two years you may even figure you like girls better.” There was nothing Grace could say to her, she didn't want to encourage her, or insult her. And then Angela laughed out loud, as she tried to rub her wrists where they were deeply chafed by her handcuffs. “Oh my God, maybe you really are a virgin, huh, baby? You ever even had a guy? If not, you may never even have to shake your little ass at one, maybe you just stick to this for good. It ain't bad at all,” she smiled, and Grace felt her stomach turn over. It reminded her of the afternoons when she'd come home and knew what was in store for her that night. She would have done anything not to come home, but she knew she had to take care of her mother, and then she knew what would happen. It was as inevitable as the setting sun. There had been no escaping it. She felt the same way now. Would she be raped by them? Or just used, as she had been by her father? And how would she ever fight them? If there were ten or twelve of them, or even two, what chance would she have? Her heart quailed as she thought of it, and the promises she had made to Molly and David that she would be strong and survive it. She'd do everything she could, but what if it was just too unbearable … what if … she stared hopelessly at the floor as they left the highway and drove up to the gates of Dwight Correctional Center. The other inmates were hooting and jeering and stamping their feet, and Grace just sat there, staring straight ahead, trying not to think of what Angela had told her.

“Okay, baby. We're home.” Angela grinned at her. “I don't know where they're gonna put you, but I'll catch up with you after a while. I'll introduce you to some of the girls. They're gonna love you.” She winked at Grace, and Grace could feel her skin crawl.

But two minutes later, they were all being shepherded from the bus, and Grace could hardly walk when she stood up, her legs were so stiff from sitting there and being shackled.

What she saw in front of her, as they got out of the bus, was a dismal-looking building, a watchtower, and a seemingly endless barbed-wire fence, behind which was a sea of faceless women in what looked like blue cotton pajamas. It was some kind of a uniform, Grace knew, but she didn't have time to look any further, they were immediately shoved inside, down a long hallway, and through endless gates and heavy doors, clanking their chains, and hobbling in their leg irons, their wrists still burning from the handcuffs.

“Welcome back to Paradise,” one of the women said sarcastically as three huge black female guards growled at them, as they shoved them toward the next gate without further greeting. “Thank you, I'm thrilled to be back, nice to see you …” she went on, and a few of the women laughed.

“It's always like this when you get here,” a black woman said to Grace under her breath, “they treat you like shit for the first couple of days, but then they leave you alone most of the time. They just want you to know who's boss.”

“Yeah. Me,” a huge black girl said, “they touch my big black ass, and I'm callin’ the NAACP, the National Guard, and the President. I know my rights. I don't give a shit if I'm no convict or not, they ain't layin’ a hand on me.” She was over six feet, and probably close to two hundred pounds, and Grace couldn't imagine anyone pushing her around, but she smiled anyway at the look on the girl's face as she said it.

“Don't pay no attention to her, girl,” the other black girl said. It surprised Grace that many of them seemed so friendly. Yet there was still an aura of menace. The guards were armed, there were signs everywhere warning of danger or penalties or punishments, for escaping, or assaulting a guard, or breaking the rules. And the prisoners coming in with her looked like a rough group, particularly in what was left of their street clothes. Grace was wearing a clean pair of jeans and a pale blue sweater Molly had bought her as a gift. She just hoped the authorities would let her keep it.

“Okay, girls.” A shrill whistle blew, and six female guards in uniform, wearing guns, lined up at the front of the room, looking like coaches on a ladies’ wrestling team, “Strip. Everything you have on in a pile on the floor at your feet. Down to bare-ass nothing, please.” The whistle blew again to stop them from talking, and the woman with the whistle introduced herself as Sergeant Freeman. Half of the guards were black, the others white, which was fairly representative of the mix of the prison population.

Grace carefully took her sweater off, and folded it on the floor at her feet. One of the officers had un-cuffed them, and now she was going around removing the circlet of steel around their waists that the chains were attached to, and the leg irons so they could remove their jeans. It was a great relief to have the leg irons off, and Grace slipped out of her shoes. She was surprised when the whistle blew again, and they told them all to take everything out of their hair, any rubber bands or bobby pins. They were to let their hair loose, and as she slipped the rubber band off her long ponytail, her dark auburn hair fell in a silken sheet well past her shoulders.

“Nice hair,” a woman behind her murmured, and Grace did not turn around to see her. It made her uncomfortable knowing the woman was watching her as she took the rest of her clothes off. And in a few minutes, all their clothes were in little piles on the floor, along with their jewelry, their glasses, their hair accessories. They were stripped entirely naked, as six guards walked among them, examining them, telling them to stand with their legs apart, their arms high, and their mouths open. Hands riffled through her hair to see if there was anything hidden there, and their hands were rough as they tugged at the long hair and moved her head from side to side. They shoved a stick in her mouth and moved it around, gagging her, and they had her cough and jump up and down, to see if anything fell out of anywhere. And then one by one, they had them stand in line, and get on a table with stirrups. Sterile instruments were used, and a huge flashlight to see if anything had been concealed in their vaginas. And as Grace stood in line, she couldn't believe that she had to do that. But there was no arguing with them, no discussion about what they would or wouldn't do. Ope scared girl tried to refuse and they told her that if she didn't cooperate, they'd tie her down, it was all the same to them, and then they'd throw her in the hole for thirty days, in the dark, buck naked.

“Welcome to Fairyland,” one of the familiars said. “Nice here, huh?”

“Ah, stop bitching, Valentine, you'll get your turn.”

“Shove it, Hartman.” The two were old friends.

“I'd love to. Wanna look when it's my turn?”

Grace's heart was pounding as she got on the table, but the exam was medical, and no worse than most of what she'd been through, it was just humiliating going through it with an audience, and half a dozen of the other women seemed to be eyeing her with interest.

“Pretty cute … here, little fishie, swim to Mama let's play doctor … can I take a look too?” She seemed not to hear them at all as she followed the rest of the line to the other side of the room and stood waiting for further instruction.

They led them to a shower room then, and literally hosed them down with near boiling water. They used insecticides on any area with hair, and sprayed lice shampoo on them, and then hosed them down again. At the end of it, they reeked of chemicals and Grace felt as though she'd been boiled in disinfectants.

Their belongings were placed in plastic bags with their names, anything forbidden had to be sent back at their own expense, or disposed of on the spot, like Grace's jeans, but she was pleased that she was allowed to keep her sweater. They were issued uniforms then, a set of rough sheets, many of which had blood and urine stains on them, and given a slip of paper with their B numbers and their cells, and then they were led away for a brief orientation as to the rules, and they were told that they would each be given job assignments the following morning. Depending on their jobs, they would be paid between two and four dollars a month for working, failure to show up for work would result in an immediate trip to the hole for a week. Failure to appear a second time would result in a month in the hole. Failure to cooperate generally would wind them up in solitary for six months with nothing to do and no one to talk to.

“Make it easy on yourselves, girls,” the guard in charge of orienting them said in no uncertain terms, “play it our way. It's the only way to go at Dwight.”

“Yeah, bullshit,” a voice whispered to Grace's right, but it was impossible to tell who it was. It had been a disembodied whisper.

In a way, they made it sound easy. All you had to do was play their game, go to work, go to chow, stay out of trouble, go back to your cell on time, and you'd do easy time and get out right on schedule. Fight with anyone, join a gang, threaten a guard, break the rules, and you'd be there forever. Try to escape and you were “dead meat hanging on the fence,” or so they said. They certainly made themselves clear, but there was more to it than just pleasing them, you had to live with the other inmates too, and they looked as tough as the guards, or worse, and they had a whole other agenda.

“What about school?” a girl in the back asked, and everyone jeered.

“How old are you?” the inmate standing next to her asked derisively.

“Fifteen.” She was another minor, like Grace, who had been tried as an adult, but they were rare here. Dwight was almost entirely for grown-ups. And surely for grown-up crimes. Like Grace, the other girl had been accused of murder, she had plea-bargained it down to manslaughter and saved herself from the death penalty. She had killed her brother, after he'd raped her. But now she wanted to go to school and get out of the ghetto.

“You've had enough school,” the woman standing next to her said. “What do you need school for?”

“You can apply after you've been here ninety days,” the guard said, and then moved on to explain what would happen to them if they ever had the bad judgment to participate in a riot. Just the thought of it made Grace's blood run cold, as the guard explained that in the last riot, they had killed forty-two inmates. But what if she got caught in the middle? What if she was taken hostage? What if she was killed by an inmate or a guard while she was just minding her own business? How was she ever going to survive this?

Her head was reeling as they finally walked her to her cell. They went in a single line, watched by half a dozen guards and hooted and jeered at by most of the inmates, standing on the tiers, looking down at them and squealing and laughing. “Hey, look at the little fishies … yum yum!” They blew kisses, they shrieked, the girl in front of Grace in the line was even hit with a flying Tampax, and Grace almost retched when she saw it. It was a place like nothing Grace had ever dreamed. It was your worst nightmare come to life. A trip to hell from which Grace could no longer imagine returning. She could still smell the insecticide on her face and hair, and as they stopped at the cell she'd been assigned to, she could feel her asthma starting to choke her.

“Adams, Grace. B-214.” The guard unlocked the door, signaled for her to step in, and the moment Grace had, she heard the door clang shut, and the key turn. She was standing in a space roughly eight feet square, there was a double bunk, and the walls were covered with pictures of naked women. There were cutouts from Playboy and Hustler and magazines Grace couldn't imagine that women would read, but they did here. Or at least, her roommate did. The lower bunk was neatly made, and with shaking hands, she set about making the top bunk, and put her toothbrush on a little ledge with a paper cup they'd given her. She'd been told that she had to buy her own cigarettes and toothpaste. But she didn't smoke anyway, she couldn't with her asthma.

When the bed was made, she climbed up and sat on it, and she just sat there, staring at the door, wondering what would happen next, or how bad it would be when she met her roommate. It was obvious what her preferences were from the photographs on the walls, and Grace was braced for the worst, but she was surprised when a sour-looking woman in her late forties was let into the cell two hours later. She glanced up at Grace, and said not a word. She paused for one long instant, looking at her, and there was no denying that Grace was beautiful, but her cellmate didn't look impressed, and it was fully half an hour later before she said hello and that her name was Sally.

“I don't want no shit in here,” she said tersely to Grace, “no funny stuff, no visitors from the gangs, no porno, no drugs. I been here seven years. I got my friends and I keep my nose clean. You do the same and we'll be fine, you give me a pain and I'll kick your ass from here to D Block. Got that nice and clear?”

“Yes,” Grace nodded breathlessly. Her chest had been getting tighter and tighter since that morning, and by dinnertime, she could hardly breathe. She was wheezing badly and they had taken her inhaler away from her when she arrived.

“You need help, you call a guard,” she'd been told, but she didn't want to do that unless she really had to. She would die first before calling attention to herself, but as they blew the whistle for chow, and she got off her bunk, Sally saw that Grace was in trouble.

“Oh Christ … looks like I got me a baby. Look, I hate kids. I never had any. I never wanted any. And I don't now. You gotta take care of yourself here.” Grace noticed as she looked down at her as Sally put on a clean shirt that her back, chest, and arms were covered with tattoos, but in some ways she was a relief to Grace. She was fully prepared to mind her own business.

“I'm fine … really …” she wheezed, but she could barely breathe by then, and Sally watched her as she fought for air. She needed her inhaler desperately, and she didn't have it.

“Sure you are. Just sit down. I'll take care of it … this time …” She looked vastly annoyed as she buttoned her shirt and kept her eye on Grace, who was deathly pale as the guard unlocked the door for dinner. Sally signaled to him before he could move on, and waved vaguely at Grace, standing in the corner. “My fish is having a little problem,” she said quietly, “looks like asthma or something, can I run her to sick bay?”

“Sure, if you want, Sally. You think she's fakin’ it?” But when they looked at her again, Grace looked more gray than pale by then, and it was obvious that her distress was real. Even her lips were faintly blue. “Nice of you to play nursemaid, Sal,” the guard teased. Sally was known to be one of the hardest women in the prison. She didn't take shit from anyone, and she was in for two counts of murder. She had murdered her girlfriend on the outside, and the woman she'd been cheating with. “It lets people know how I think,” she always explained to the women she was involved with. But she had had the same lover in C Block for the past three years. Everyone in the place knew they were as good as married, and no one ever crossed Sally.

“Come on,” she said to Grace over her shoulder, and then shoved her out of the cell with a look of annoyance. “I'll take you to the nurse, but don't pull this shit on me again. You got a problem, you handle it. I ain't gonna wipe your ass for you, kid, just because you're my cellmate.”

“I'm sorry,” Grace said, her eyes brimming with tears. It was not a great beginning, and the woman was clearly pissed at her. At least that was what Grace thought. She didn't know that the older woman felt sorry for her. It was obvious even to her that Grace didn't belong there.

Five minutes later, she left Grace with the nurse, as she continued to gasp for air. The nurse gave her oxygen, and finally relented and decided to let her have, and keep, her inhaler. She wasn't going to be worth the trouble she caused if they didn't. But this time, they had to give her some other medication as well, because the attack had gotten too far out of hand in the past half hour. Grace knew only too well that without her medicine, she could die from suffocation. But at this point, she wasn't totally convinced that that wouldn't be a blessing.

She arrived at dinner half an hour later, shaken and pale, and most of the edible food was gone, the rest was all grit and grease and bone, and the stuff no one had wanted. She wasn't hungry anyway, the asthma attack had made her feel sick, and the medicine always made her feel shaky. She was too upset to eat anyway. She wanted to thank Sally for taking her to the nurse, but she didn't dare speak to her when she saw her with a group of tough older women, covered with tattoos, and Sally gave no sign of recognition.

“What'll it be? Filet mignon, or roast duck?” a pretty black girl asked from behind the counter, and then she smiled at Grace. “Actually, I've got a couple of slices of pizza left in the back. Any interest?”

“Yeah, thanks,” Grace smiled, looking exhausted. “Thanks a lot.” The young black girl produced them for her, and watched as Grace made her way to a table.

She sat down at an empty place at a table with three other girls, no one said hello or seemed to notice her. And across the room, she could see Angela, from the bus, with a group of women, engaged in lively conversation. But this group seemed to want nothing to do with her, and she was grateful to keep to herself, and eat her slice of pizza. She was still having trouble breathing.

“My, my, what a pretty little fish you have at your table today, girls,” a voice said from behind her as she sipped her coffee. Grace didn't move when she heard the words, but she felt herself jostled by someone standing directly behind her. She tried to pretend she didn't know what was happening, and she stared straight ahead, but she could see that the other young women at her table were looking nervous. “Doesn't anyone talk around here? Christ, what a bunch of rude bitches.”

“Sorry,” one of them muttered, and then hurried away, and Grace suddenly felt a warm body pressed against the back of her head. There was no avoiding it now, she leaned forward and then turned around, and found herself looking up at an enormously tall blonde with a spectacular figure. She looked like a Hollywood version of a bad girl. She was wearing plenty of makeup, and a tight men's T-shirt that you could see through. She looked like one of Sally's pinups. She was almost a caricature of a sexy inmate.

“What a pretty girl,” the tall blonde said, looking down at her. “You lonely, baby?” her voice was a sensual purr, as she seemed to press her pelvis toward Grace as she stood there, and Grace could see now that her T-shirt was damp, which allowed everyone a clear view of her breasts and nipples. It was as though she were wearing nothing. “Why don't you come and see me sometime? My name's Brenda. Everyone knows where I live,” she said, grinning.

“Thanks.” Grace still sounded breathy from her asthma attack, and the big blonde smiled at her.

“What's your name? Marilyn Monroe?” She made fun of the way Grace had sounded.

“Sorry … asthma …”

“Oh poor baby … you take anything for it?” She sounded concerned and Grace didn't want to be rude and get her angry. The big blonde was tough and sure of herself, and she looked to be about thirty.

“Yeah … I've got an inhaler.” She pulled it out of her pocket and showed her.

“Take good care of it.” She laughed then, and tweaked the tip of Grace's breast before sauntering off to her buddies.

Grace was shaking as the other girl walked away, and she stared down into her coffee, thinking about all of them. It was truly a jungle.

“Watch out for her,” one of the girls at her table whispered, and then walked away. Brenda was a tough one.

Grace went straight back to her cell after that. They were showing a movie that night, but she had no interest in going. She just wanted to go back to her cell, and stay there until morning. She lay on her bunk, and heaved a sigh of relief. She had to use her inhaler two more times that night before she relaxed and felt like she could breathe again. And she was still awake at ten o'clock when Sally got back from the movies.

Sally didn't say a word to her, but Grace turned on her bunk and thanked her for taking her to the nurse for her asthma.

“She gave me my inhaler back.”

“Don't show it to anyone,” Sally said wisely. “They play with people here for things like that. Just keep it to yourself, and use it in private.” That wasn't always possible, but Grace sensed that it was good advice, and nodded. And then, as they turned off the lights, and Sally got into her lower bunk, she spoke to Grace again in the darkness. “I saw Brenda Evans talking to you at chow. Watch out for her. She's dangerous. You're going to have to learn to swim here real quick, little fish. And watch your back till you do. This place ain't no playground.”

“Thank you,” Grace whispered in the dark, and she lay there for a long time, as silent tears slid down her cheeks onto the mattress. She lay there for what seemed like hours, listening to the clattering and banging outside, the shouts, and occasional screams, and through it all she listened to the comfortable purr of Sally's snoring.

Chapter 5

After two weeks, Grace knew her way around Dwight, and she had a job in the supply room, handing out towels and combs, and counting out toothbrushes for the new arrivals. Sally got her the job, although she pretended not to have any interest in helping Grace. But she seemed to keep an eye on her from a distance.

Molly had been to see her once by then, and she was devastated by what she heard and saw there. But Grace insisted that she was all right. And much to her own surprise, no one had really bothered her. They called her a fish whenever they got the chance, and Brenda had stopped to talk to her again once or twice at chow, but it never went beyond that. She hadn't even tweaked Grace's breast again. So far, she felt pretty lucky. She was safe, she had a decent job. Her roommate was taciturn, but basically kind. No one had threatened her, or invited her to join a gang. It looked like what they called “easy time.” At this rate, she would survive the two years. And she was in pretty good spirits when David saw her, which reassured him. He hated her being there, and he felt more than ever that she didn't belong there, but at least nothing untoward had happened to her, and she insisted that she wasn't in any danger. It was something to be cheered about at least. And they spent their time together talking about her future.

She had already made up her mind that after she did her time at Dwight, she was going to Chicago. She had to stay in the state for two years of probation, but Chicago would suit her perfectly. And the fifty thousand dollars of her father's that Frank Wills had given her would give her a nest egg. She wanted to get a job when she got out, but before that, she wanted to learn to type, and take her college courses, as soon as she could start them.

David told her about the appeal, and he was encouraging, but it was hard to say what would happen.

“Don't worry about it. I'm okay here,” she said gently, and as he watched her leave the visiting room that afternoon, he marveled at the quiet dignity of her carriage. She held herself straight, and she was thinner than she had ever been. She looked beautiful and neat and clean, and it was hard to believe, looking at her, that she was an inmate in a prison. She looked like a college girl, or a cheerleader. She looked like someone's really good-looking wholesome little sister. It was impossible to see her history as one looked at her, except if you saw her eyes. The pain one saw there told a different story. And all that he knew of her made him ache for her. It was never easy for him to forget her.

He waved sadly as he drove away, and she stood outside watching his car disappear in the distance. It was even harder for her than it was for him. For her it was like being deserted in the jungle.

“Who's that?” a voice behind her asked, and when Grace turned to look at her, she saw Brenda. “Your boyfriend?”

“No,” Grace said, with quiet dignity, “my attorney.”

Brenda laughed openly at her. “Don't waste your time. They're all pricks. They tell you what they're gonna do, and how they're gonna save your ass, and they don't do shit except fuck you, literally if you let them, and every other way too. I never met one worth a damn. Actually,” she laughed again, “I never met a guy worth a damn either. What about you?” She looked pointedly at Grace. She was wearing one of her wet T-shirts again, and Grace noticed that she had a tattoo on one arm, of a large red rose with a snake under it, and next to her eyes she had tattoos of tiny teardrops. “You got a boyfriend?” Grace knew that here it was a dangerous question, whatever you said, you were in a precarious position. She just shrugged noncommittally. She was learning. And she started to walk slowly back inside after her visit. “You in a hurry to go somewhere?”

“No, I … I thought I'd write some letters.”

“Oh how cute,” Brenda laughed. “Just like camp. You got a mommy and daddy at home to write to? You still didn't answer me about the boyfriend.”

“Just a friend.” She had wanted to write to Molly, about David's visit.

“Hang around. It can be a lot of fun around here. If you want it to be. Or it can be a real drag. It's up to you, babe.”

“I'm okay,” she said, looking for a way to exit without enraging Brenda. But Brenda wasn't making it easy.

“Your cellie's a real creep, and so's her girlfriend. You met her yet?” Grace shook her head. Sally was very discreet about her private life. She had never said anything to Grace, nor did she seek her out when they were out of their cell. She minded her own business. “Big black bitch. They're a real drag. What about you? You like to party? Little magic dust, little weed?” Brenda's eyes sparkled at the thought of it, and Grace tried to look vague and then shook her head.

“Not really. I've got pretty bad asthma.” And no interest in drugs. But she didn't say that. The last thing she wanted was to offend Brenda. She had already gathered from others that Brenda was considered bad news. She was involved with one of the gangs, and the rumor was that she not only did drugs, but sold them, and one of these days, she was going to get in a whole lot of trouble.

“What's asthma got to do with it? I had a roommate in Chicago who only had one lung, and she used to freebase.”

“I don't know …” Grace said vaguely, “I'm not into that.”

“I'll bet there's a lot of things you haven't tried yet, baby girl.” Brenda laughed again, and Grace walked away with a friendly wave, and then she hurried back to her cell, feeling breathless. She touched the inhaler in her pocket and was reassured to know it was close at hand. Sometimes just knowing that it was there made her breathing easier.

There were movies again that night, and Sally went out again. Her one weakness in life, other than pinups, seemed to be movies. The more violent the better. But Grace hadn't been to one yet, and she was grateful for time alone in her cell after dinner. The room was so small and claustrophobic, but there were times when she was so relieved to be there, and away from everyone, that it actually seemed cozy.

After dinner, their cells were left unlocked unless one requested they be locked up. It allowed for some visiting time for inmates to stop by and see each other, or play games. They played a lot of cards, and a few of them played chess, or Scrabble. It was just understood that from six to nine the cells would be open, and inmates could come and go to various approved locations.

Grace was lying on her bed writing to Molly after dinner that night, and she heard the door open, but didn't bother to look up. She assumed it was Sally, back from the movie, and the other woman didn't say anything when she came in. She rarely did, so Grace thought nothing of the silence, until she sensed a presence next to her, and looked up to find herself staring into Brenda's face. She had uncovered one breast and it was resting on Grace's bunk, and just behind her was another woman.

“Hi, babycakes,” she purred with a smile, caressing her nipple casually, as Grace sat up. The other girl was not quite as tall, but she looked a lot tougher than Brenda. “This is Jane. She wanted to come by and meet you.” But Jane said nothing. She just stared at Grace, as Brenda reached out and stroked Grace's breast this time. Grace tried to move away, and Brenda grabbed her arm and held her firm. It reminded her, for just an instant, of her father, and she could feel her chest tighten. “Want to come out and play?” It was not an invitation, but a command, and she looked like an Amazon as she stood there in all her blond splendor.

“Not really, I … I'm kind of tired.” Grace didn't know what to say to her, and she wasn't old enough or tough enough or savvy enough to prison ways, to know how to ward off Brenda.

“Why don't you come rest at my place for a while? We got another hour till lockdown.”

“I don't think so,” Grace said nervously, feeling her chest get even tighter. “I'd rather not.”

“How polite.” Brenda laughed out loud, and squeezed Grace's breast hard, and then pinched her nipple. “Want to know something, sweetheart? I don't give a shit what you want. You're coming with us.”

“I … I don't think so … I … please …” She didn't want to whine, but it sounded that way even to her own ears, and as she looked at Brenda she suddenly heard a grating sound, and Jane moved closer to them. Grace saw instantly that she had a switchblade concealed in the palm of her hand, and she flashed it at Grace with a menacing expression.

“Ain't that nice?” Brenda smiled. “An engraved invitation from Jane. In fact, she's done a lot of that kind of work. She does some real nice engraving.” This time they both laughed, and Brenda pulled open Grace's shirt and licked her nipple. “Nice, huh? You know, I'd hate to have Jane get excited and want to start doing some engraving right there… you know … sometimes she makes little mistakes, and it could get kind of messy. Okay? So why not hop down off your bunk and come with us? I really think you're gonna like it.” This was what she had feared. This was it. A gang rape using God knows what, and maybe carving her face off with a knife. Nothing in her life had prepared her for this, not even her father.

She was breathless as she hopped off her bunk, still clutching her pen and her letter in her hand. And then, with a smooth gesture, she turned, as though to set it down, and as she did, and left the paper on Sally's bunk, she wrote one small word. Brenda. Maybe it would be too late. And maybe Sally couldn't help her, or wouldn't even want to. But it was all she could do, as she left the cell between Brenda and Jane. She was about as tall as they were, but she looked like a child next to them, and in many ways she was. She knew nothing of women like them.

She was surprised when they didn't take her to their cell, but walked past the gym instead, and then outdoors, as though they wanted to get some air. The guards were watching them, but the guards saw nothing untoward about three women going for a walk outside before lockdown. A lot of the women did that to get some air, or have a smoke, or just relax before they went to bed. And Brenda joked with the guards as they walked by them. Jane stayed close to Grace. The knife in her hand out of sight, but held close to Grace's neck, as she draped an arm casually over her shoulder. They looked like they were friends, and no one seemed to notice Grace's terror.

And once outside, Brenda wandered over to a small shed that Grace had never even noticed. The guards in the tower weren't watching them. There was no danger there, it was just an old shed with no windows they used to store maintenance equipment. Brenda had a key to it, and the moment she opened the door, the threesome disappeared inside. There were four more women in there, leaning against the machinery that was stored, smoking cigarettes, and holding a single flashlight. It was the perfect place for anything they wanted to do to her, even kill her.

“Welcome to our little clubhouse,” Brenda said, laughing at her. “She really wanted to come and play,” Brenda said to the others. “Didn't you, Gracie … oh pretty girl … pretty, pretty girl …” she purred, carefully unbuttoning Grace's shirt, as Grace tried to stop her. If at all possible, they didn't want to leave any signs of damage, like torn clothing, unless of course they really had to. If she forced them to, they could do a lot of damage, and if she was smart, she'd be too afraid to tell anyone who had done it.

Grace felt Jane's knife pressed against her flesh, and her shirt stayed unbuttoned, as Brenda pulled her bra down. “Nice fresh meat, huh, girls?” Everyone laughed and one of the others who'd been waiting there said to hurry the hell up. Lockdown was in less than an hour. They didn't have all night for chrissake.

“God, I hate to rush when I eat,” Brenda said, and everyone in the shed laughed. And then Grace saw two of them come forward with lengths of rope, and a rag. They were going to tie her down and gag her. “Come on, kid. Let's get this show on the road,” one of the older women said. She grabbed an arm, and another woman grabbed another, and Grace was dragged backwards and thrown to the ground so hard it left her breathless. They moved as a single team then. Two women tied her arms to the heavy machines, then they yanked off her pants and her underwear and threw them aside as two more tied her legs, as the last two sat on them, and Jane managed to sit on one leg to keep her knife pressed into Grace's stomach. There was no point in fighting or screaming, and she knew it. They would have killed her. But she could hardly breathe, and as she glanced anxiously toward the inhaler in the pocket of her discarded shirt, Brenda remembered it too. She reached for it, found it, and held it out to Grace tauntingly, but Grace's hands were tied, and Brenda dropped it on the ground next to her, as one of Jane's big boots came forward and stomped it into splinters.

“Sorry, kid.” Brenda smiled mockingly. “Okay? You know the rules of this game?” Brenda asked, tossing her blond hair back over her shoulder, and then standing up to slip off her own pants. “First we do you, and then you do us … one by one … we'll tell you how … and when and where, and just how we like it. And after this,” Brenda growled at her, and bit hard on her nipple, as she rubbed her crotch, “you belong to us. You understand? You come out here whenever we want, as often as we want, with whoever we want, and you do exactly what we tell you to do. You got that? And if you squeal, you little bitch, we cut out your tongue and cut your tits off. You get it? You know, kind of like a mastectomy.” Everyone laughed at her wit, except Grace, who was shaking and wheezing, lying on the cold floor, terrified of what they were going to do to her.

“Why? Why do you have to do this? … you don't need me … please …” She was begging, and they thought it was funny. She was so new, so fresh, so young, and they knew that if they didn't get her, someone else would. It was first come, first served in prison.

“You're gonna be our sweetie, aren't you, Grace?” Brenda said, leaning down slowly to the place where Grace's legs met, as she knelt on the ground in front of her. Grace was naked by then, and Brenda slowly began to lick her. She loved that part, breaking them in, having someone no one else had ever had, turning them on, scaring them, using them, showing them how helpless they were, making them do anything she wanted. She stopped for a minute, and pulled a tiny tube out of the pocket of her jacket. She opened it, and quickly inhaled the white powder, and then ran a tiny bit of it around her gums, and with a single finger she put a little bit on Grace, and licked it off with vigor. “Nice …” Brenda moaned, loving it, feeling Grace with her fingers as the others told her to hurry up. She was shoving her whole hand in then and Grace winced in pain. But the others were complaining. They wanted a turn too. They didn't have all night. This wasn't Brenda's honeymoon. “Maybe it is, you cunt,” she said to one of the girls grumbling at her, “maybe I'll keep her for myself if she's any good.” But Grace was squirming and trying to move away from her, and the relendess prodding of her fist, although she couldn't go far with her legs tied. She wanted to scream, but didn't dare, for fear of Jane's knife. But they hadn't gagged her. They needed her mouth to please them, when they were through with her.

Grace closed her eyes then, trying to pretend she wasn't there, that it wasn't happening, and then suddenly she heard a noise and a bang, like a door slamming. She heard Brenda gasp and felt her pull her hand out and jump aside, and when Grace opened her eyes, she saw a tall, graceful black girl standing in the doorway. She didn't know if the girl was one of them or not, but the others didn't seem happy to see her.