forehead's quite cool.'
   Jennifer briskly chopped up bacon. 'It doesn't take much. Just a couple of degrees 
over.'
   John said, 'You're not upset?'
   'Why should I be upset?'
   'Well ... him thinking about Virginia so vividly. I don't want you to think that Lenny 
doesn't love you. That he resents you being my wife or anything.'
   Jennifer leaned across the counter and kissed him, slowly and softly, on the lips. 'He 
lost his mother. Who can blame him for thinking about her? And I can never replace 
Virginia. I wouldn't even try.'
   John dragged a stool across to the counter and sat down. 'He says he saw her in the 
schoolyard last week, waving at him. And last Friday, at the gas station.'
   'He'll get over it. He probably feels strange at the moment - not sure what role he's 
supposed to be playing. Not sure where he fits in.'
   John watched her finish the pasta and arrange it on three blue-rimmed plates. In her 
yellow open-necked shirt and her designer jeans, she looked young and fresh and very 
pretty. The fine blond hairs shone on her arms; he stroked them with his fingertips. 
'What are you doing? You'll make me spill it.' 'I'm in love with the hairs on your arms.' 
'You make me sound like Popeye.' John laughed; and then the doorbell rang. 'Dr 
Hendriksen,' said Jennifer.
   Dr Hendriksen came out into the hallway, thoughtfully rubbing the back of his neck. He 
was a stocky, fiftyish man with short-cropped hair and a bulldog face like Teddy 
Roosevelt's. Despite his disproportionately deep chest and his short, bandy legs, he 
always wore perfectly tailored suits. Jennifer thought he would have made a better 
politician than a family doctor.
   'I can set your mind at rest on one thing,' he said. 'There's nothing physically wrong 
with Lenny. No infection, no temperature. I've had two or three cases of tuberculous 
meningitis this year: I was worried it might be that. But Lenny is perfectly clear. He's 
a little listless. Maybe preoccupied more than listless. But there's no sign of fever or 
vomiting, no headaches. I'd say that, physically speaking, Lenny is one healthy young 
man.'
   'That's twice you said physically,' Jennifer remarked.
   Dr Hendriksen closed his bag and snapped the clasps. 'Well, we know what happened to 
his mother; and we know that he suffered shock and grief and a strong sense of personal 
guilt, even though it wasn't his fault.'
   'So you think it might be some kind of delayed reaction to Virginia's death?' John 
said.
   'It's possible. That break-in you had yesterday might have contributed to it - caused 
a crisis of nervous tension.'
   'What do you suggest we do?' asked Jennifer.
   Dr Hendriksen smiled. 'Well, I'm not going to prescribe any medication, certainly not 
yet. Children get quite enough drugs in their breakfast cereals without doctors giving 
them any more. But you might consider taking him away for a week or so, just to calm him 
down.'
   John opened the door for the doctor. Sunlight and noise streamed into the hallway. 'As 
a matter of fact, we're borrowing a house up at Chestnut Hill for a couple of days.'
   'Nice area,' said Dr Hendriksen. 'Listen - keep him calm, that's my advice. When he 
talks about seeing his mother, don't over-react, just accept it quietly as part of the 
recovery process. I have some patients who lost husbands or wives' twenty or thirty years 
ago, and they still haven't completely recovered.'
   Dr Hendriksen collected his homburg, lifted it courteously to Jennifer, and walked 
across the sidewalk to his huge twenty-year-old Rolls-Royce. 'Call me, if you need to,' 
he told them, then climbed in behind the wheel and pulled away from the curb.
   'There,' said Jennifer, kissing John quickly on the cheek. 'Nothing to worry about.'
   'I'll go get that bottle of champagne,' said John.
   'Nothing too expensive, okay? I'd rather spend our money on a new bedroom.'
   They had only just finished their lunch when there was another ring at the door. John 
was in the kitchen, clearing up the plates, so Jennifer called, 'I'll get it!'
   She opened the front door and found Sergeant Clay and Detective Clay standing outside.
   'May we come in for a moment, Mrs. Woods?' Sergeant Clay said.
   She opened the door wider and they entered the hallway. Both were two heads taller 
than she was. Sergeant Clay wore a gray tailored suit, Detective Clay a bronze one, both 
from Sears. 'Is your husband home?' asked Sergeant Clay.
   'We're all home today - my stepson, too. I guess we needed a day off.'
   'I'd say so,' Sergeant Clay remarked.
   The two detectives followed Jennifer into the sitting room.
   'This is Lenny,' said Jennifer.
   'Hi, Lenny,' Sergeant Clay nodded at him. 'You not feeling so good today?'
   'He felt a little faint, that's all,' Jennifer explained.
   'Well, that's not unusual, after what happened,' said Sergeant Clay. 'It's the shock, 
you know. You'll get over it.'
   John came out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a tea towel. 'Sergeant Clay? How are 
you doing?'
   Sergeant Clay adjusted the small, tight knot of his necktie, looking up at the ceiling 
as he did so. 'Not too good, as a matter of fact, Mr. Woods. We've had an interim report 
from the laboratory, and we've been discussing the whole pattern of what happened with 
our robbery and vandalism specialists, and on the whole we're inclined to the conclusion 
that there was no break in.' He stopped and lowered his eyes.
   John stared at him, then let out a short, disbelieving laugh. 'What? You saw the 
bedroom for yourself, Sergeant. It was wrecked! And now you're trying to tell me that 
there was no break-in? Is this a joke, or what?'
   Sergeant Clay shrugged. 'Mr. Woods, the facts speak for themselves. Your house was 
secure last night; all the doors and all the large windows were locked from the inside, 
and there was no sign of anybody having forced an entrance through any of the smaller 
windows. Your bedroom was ripped apart so totally that even a team of half a dozen angry 
and very energetic vandals couldn't have done it in less than a half hour; and I find it 
very difficult to believe that both you and Mrs. Woods were in the house while this was 
going on and heard nothing at all until that loud bang that you told us about.'
   'So what are you saying?' John demanded. 'You're saying that we did it ourselves, and 
made the story up?'
   Sergeant Clay gave an almost imperceptible nod. 'We've had cases before, Mr. Woods, 
where a husband and wife have torn their place up during a domestic confrontation, and 
then blamed some mysterious intruder.'
   'Are you serious?' John asked, incredulous. 'Do my wife and I look like the kind of 
people who would systematically rip a freshly decorated bedroom to pieces?'
   'Nobody looks like anything to me,' Sergeant Clay replied, trying to remain calm. 'I 
know a dear little old lady who sawed off her husband's head; and I know a Hell's Angel 
who gave the kiss of life to a half-drowned baby.'
   'All the same, you're accusing us of having destroyed that bedroom ourselves?' John 
was furious now.