Liz stood up, fastening her jeans. She trembled all over. She felt like locking the door of her bedroom and cowering in a corner until they came for her. She knew now that she shouldn't have fled the living room in such a panic, leaving the gawking boy, the evidence, and Carmen. She should have invited the boy in immediately and sworn him to silence, bribing him with whatever it took.

She should have destroyed the evidence – those panties reeking of her lust-mad cunt. Then she should have leapt on Carmen, wrung the bitch's neck, and sent her back to Chicago. In the heat of the moment she could have done all those things. But now, trembling, sick to her stomach, she felt too weak even to talk. She crept back to the living room, sure she would faint.

The front door was closed, the boy's face gone from the window. Perhaps he had been an hallucination.

The livingroom was empty, deserted. Liz thought she smelled cunt in the air, but perhaps she was imagining that too. Perhaps it was her face she smelled. She'd have to scrub her face with soap.

Sunlight still blazed in through the picture window. The sky was clearing. Liz could make out blue through the tops of the trees.

In the center of the livingroom, like a stage upon which the whole nightmarish drama had been played, the white couch rested, bathed in sunlight. The air was still.

Carmen was gone; the boy was gone. Perhaps it had all been a dream. Perhaps she only imagined the scent of pussy now. Perhaps nothing at all had happened. Perhaps there was no evidence – no panties lying on the floor in front of the couch.

Liz stepped out of the hallway and into the livingroom. She crept around the end of the long couch, holding her breath.