‘She ought to be. Knives were worse, especially when you were stabbed back and left traces of your own blood at the crime scene. What had urged her to wrench loose and fly was the guarding instinct of the good woman. “Martin Chen!” Michelle shouted his name in an outburst, like an invocation. Pottiswick’s daughter found her tongue. The procession had just got into line of march, when a dreadful groan, mixed with yells, hootings, and execrations, was heard. The applause was uproarious at the end of the concert. She wrote it down. She took a shower after a particularly harsh volleyball debacle only to find that her locker had been picked and her outfit of the day, gray sweatpants and a shapeless pink sweater, were gone.
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