Now it was over. This time it was really, truly over.

She smiled at the sea. My soul is mine again, she thought. A calmness, a serenity she had not felt in months, settled over her. She rose to her feet and started for home.

Two blocks from her house she spotted the blue Peugeot, parked near the intersection of Willow and Spring Streets. So he was still waiting for her. She paused by the car, gazing in at the black leather upholstery, the sheepskin seat covers, all of it too familiar. The scene of the crime, she thought. The first kiss. I’ve paid for it, in pain. Now it’s his turn.

She left the car and headed purposefully to her house. She climbed the porch steps; the front door was unlocked, as she’d left it. Inside, the lights were still on. He wasn’t in the living room.

“Richard?” she said.

No answer.

The smell of coffee brewing drew her to the kitchen. She saw a fresh pot on the burner, a half-filled mug on the countertop. One of the kitchen drawers had been left wide open. She slammed it shut. Well. You came right in and made yourself at home, didn’t you? She grabbed the mug and tossed the contents into the sink. The coffee splashed her hand; it was barely lukewarm.

She moved along the hall, past the bathroom. The light was on, and water trickled from the faucet. She shut it off. “You have no right to come in here!” she yelled. “It’s my house. I could call the police and have you arrested for trespassing.”

She turned toward the bedroom. Even before she reached the doorway she knew what to expect, knew what she’d have to contend with. He’d be sprawled on her bed, naked, a grin on his face. That was the way he’d greeted her the last time. This time she’d toss him out, clothes or no clothes. This time he’d be in for a surprise.