“I guess so. At some people especially. One time after you were in for supper and left, she said something about how quiet you were and that you weren’t as tough as you think you are.”

“I don’t think I’m tough.”

“I wouldn’t know. It’s just something I overheard.”

I’d overheard some things last night myself; I felt a little uncomfortable in my private knowledge, of my having been an unseen spectator last night, during her fun and games with Turner or Thomas or whatever he might call himself. An asshole by any other name…

She was sitting in a shadow and her features were indistinct. Then I realized I was providing the shadow, and moved, and got a better look at her. She was still small and tan, with a lot of dark hair falling down behind her shoulders, pulled away from a pretty if not striking face that looked thirteen and thirty. Her eyes, I remembered, were Wilma’s: her eyes, today, were haunted. She was wearing a sweatshirt that said MARY HARTMAN, MARY HARTMAN on it, and jeans; both were baggy and obscured the mature figure I’d seen through the keyhole.

“Are you here for a reason?”

“I’m sorry about your aunt.”

“I know. Thank you for taking time to say so.”

I said nothing.

“Please. I don’t mean to be rude, but could you go, now? I’d like to sit here alone and just be kind of quiet for a while.”

“I don’t mean to be rude, either, but I need to ask you some questions.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I know about your friend. Mr. Thomas. Room twelve?”

Her face went pale, or tried to, under the tan. She rose and said, “I’m going in the house, now.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“No…”

“Then sit back down on the swing.”

“I won’t…”

“I talked to him last night. Your aunt asked me to. To tell him to lay off you.”

“She did. And what did he say?”

“He said you had the hairiest tight little pussy he ever dove into.”