Maeve didn't like being away from her daughter when Cora was probably unwell. The girl had been fine the day before, seemed happy enough to sit around and watch television; finding her in her closet at about two in the morning had startled Maeve, though. All she could figure, even now, was that Cora had been drinking with Brian and the other young people and had come home and passed out in the closet. All of it was very unlike her, though. As far as Maeve knew, her daughter didn't drink. The woman had never even had to pester Cora about alcohol; the girl had been remarkably level-headed about partying too much at her age.

But old people expected care every day; their needs didn't go on holiday. Taking Thanksgiving had already irritated her employer, so Maeve knew she couldn't ask off the Friday after as well.

She herself had something of a headache following a bit too much wine and lack of sleep, but it'd been worth it. Maeve had had the most normal night she'd experienced in years. Listening to all the gossip and conversations of the others, she'd almost forgotten her own problems.

Almost. Until John had expressed some kind of interest, and then she'd remembered her life was a wreck.

Maeve had spent much of the morning lurking in the Saint David's Hall, taking care of linens and trying to switch tasks with others so she wouldn't have to venture out beyond her safe set of rooms. Ever since Martha Heyward had freaked her out, she'd been trying to avoid running into the old woman. It hadn't been too difficult; Martha was on a different meal and activity schedule than the men and women in Maeve's hall, so the potential for seeing the strange woman was low. Still, their sole encounter had been disturbing enough for Maeve that she was intent on making sure they wouldn't have a chance run-in anytime soon.

Deep cleaning rooms was relaxing, Maeve thought, wiping the windowsill. She'd take care of the blinds, next. Sister Mary Rose, the old nun who'd inhabited the room, had died two days before, and her room needed readying for the next old man or woman. The eldercare home was a factory of sorts, cycling people through the doors, and anyone that came knew their arrival was a death sentence, knew the only way out was on a stretcher, and before their beds were cold someone else was hobbling or wheeling in. In with the old, out with the older.

"Sometimes people have to die so others of us can actually live," he'd told her. It was how he'd justified it. "It was the only way for us to be together."

And he'd run his gravedigging fingers through her hair, ignored her trembling, and taken her home.

Several weeks before it'd happened, when seeing him had been adventurous and new, Maeve and Alyssa had sat up at night in Alyssa's bedroom and giggled and gossiped like the teenaged girls they were, raving over photos of themselves and some of their classmates, digging through the magazines Nettie willingly purchased for Alyssa but which Maeve's own mother would've been horrified to find her reading. They'd talked about boys they'd crushed on and girls they disliked and Alyssa had gone on and on about how lucky Maeve was to have found Paul, who was so amazing and attractive and mature. Maeve had only been able to blush and smile and shy away from her friend's prying and even so, Alyssa had known. "You'd better use protection!" she'd practically screamed at Maeve, whether from concern or from shock neither really knew. And Maeve, who'd innocently assumed Alyssa had meant to protect her heart, had been dragged downstairs to Nettie, who'd happily given both girls a too-detailed lesson on condoms and STD's and pregnancy. Maeve had gone forward armed with what she believed would be useful information, but Paul had only perceived her advice as interfering and demeaning, and he'd easily convinced her not to listen to anyone but him.

It'd been so new and so exciting, at that point, and he'd told her he loved her, said "Love means never needing to worry about protection. I'm your protection, now."

Oh, she'd been so stupid. So stupid. She'd let him hurt her, again and again. She hadn't known what love was. She still didn't know what the right kind of love was. Paul was all she'd ever known. And even though her brain was fully aware that he'd been abusive, that if he found her again, he'd continue to abuse her, maybe even kill her this time, her heart was still too conflicted to do anything worse than run. She knew it was wrong, but the wrongness, in its own twisted way, felt right. And throughout the years of Cora's upbringing, when she'd left their secret daughter with Luce and gone off to try to make something of herself, poured herself into undergrad and then graduate work toward becoming a pharmacist, using the money her parents had given her to make a life of some kind, he'd found her. First, three years after Maeve had had Cora, accosting her after a night class, stepping from the shadows and forcing her into her car. Once he'd found her apartment, he'd tormented her, sneaking in when he felt inclined, watching her from a distance and finding the most banal reasons to be jealous. Her grades had begun to plummet; she rarely left her apartment because of the fear of how he might perceive her movements. She'd begun waiting for him to come to her, perversely found herself pining for him when he did reverse course and begin to ignore her only to then remind her that she belonged to him, that what she'd done those years ago bound her to him, that he could send her to jail by merely stating she'd been the only one to do it. He told her that he'd found her and followed her and forced her because he loved her. That she could not leave him again or she'd break his heart.

Nevertheless, she had left him, the moment she'd found the courage and the opportunity, and she'd transferred to another state, a big city, to attempt her masters degree after barely completing her undergraduate work. She'd grown creative, changed her name and her hair and her style, gotten rid of her car and used public transit, taken on roommates, and done her best to avoid being around large groups of people when possible. It'd worked for some time, several years, enough for her to breathe and begin to live a life she hadn't known she'd had. But she'd never stopped thinking about her daughter, calling home to ask about the girl, how she was growing, what she was doing. She took surreptitious trips home to see Cora, the most memorable of which was Maeve's own father's funeral. Looking back, Maeve realized that the man's end had been the beginning of Luce's mental decline.

But she'd returned to her life, and Paul had found her a second time. Getting away from him again had been far more difficult, taken much longer; he'd been craftier that time, working his way into her life without her realizing it, befriending her coworkers and peers, frequenting the places she'd begun to spend time, spying and lying in wait, until when she'd been out one night, celebrating the birthday of a friend--

She remembered it so vividly.

She'd turned from the bar, drink in hand, happily laughing at something someone had said, and a young man she'd known from school had turned to the door, called, "Hey, Isaac!" to someone coming inside, then turned back to Maeve and the others, said, "He's been playing in our soccer league, thought he'd want to meet everyone." And they'd all started welcoming the new arrival when Maeve had caught sight of him through the others and realized he was no Isaac. Her heart had jumped so high it'd nearly come out of her throat.

"Marie?" he'd said when introduced to her, his black eyes screwing into her own, churning with all the knowledge of their past, all the pleasure he no doubt gained by her shock and fear. "Forgive me for being forward, but you're stunning."

She'd barely held on for the hour or so she'd tried to stomach his presence, having to listen to others comment secretively about his attractiveness, his height and athletic build, his thick dark hair and piercing eyes (just like their daughter's) and confident cleverness. But at length, she'd had to go, excused herself to the restroom but snuck out the back door only to find, when she reached her home, that he knew where she lived and was waiting for her.

When she did get away from him that time, she'd gone back to her hometown, hoping he'd not suspect such a move, and she'd decided to take on menial jobs rather than work in pharmaceuticals, where he'd know to look. She'd been closer to Cora, anyway, who was growing up quickly. Maeve had been content near the girl, would've left her in the safety of her grandmother's house and just kept a short distance, but when Maeve had realized Luce was speaking to Paul . . .

And since then, whenever Maeve had felt even a tremor that gave her reason to believe he might have found them--an odd look or comment from a stranger, items misplaced around her home, a strange car parked out front--she'd moved.

She hadn't seen Paul in person since she'd left him to return to her hometown, though she'd had scares since then. It was only a matter of time; she knew that. And when he discovered Cora was his daughter . . . well, Maeve didn't quite know what he'd think. And the sickness of it all, the reason she knew there was far too much wrong with her to try to live some normal sort of life, was that, had it not been for Cora, there might have been a small part of Maeve that wanted him to keep finding her. Because if the possibility of Paul weren't always out there, if Maeve had no one desirous of hunting her, of hurting her . . . no one would be there at all.

When she got off one job, she drove to the next. She worked monotonous hours, spoke to faceless people who bought items in forgettable transactions. The whole while, she couldn't take her thoughts off of the signs, the warnings--had it been even a year earlier, she would've already taken Cora and run, but the girl had found a friend in Brian, and she'd grown to like the house. After the winter holiday, should her health improve, she'd be back at school, and from there it was a matter of a few months before she graduated. If they could only manage to wait a little . . .

There'd been nothing concrete, had there? Only Maeve's feelings and imaginings. Martha Heyward's strange comment, the continuous nightmares about babies, the persistent ants, her inability to sleep, Mr. George dying in her yard and Dottie's freaky gross cats, that car she'd finally had towed--but none of these things gave any indication that Paul had found her. She'd wait--she had to. She just needed something to help her get through the wait. Once Cora was far away--as far away as scholarships and Maeve could afford to send her--the woman wouldn't care if he found her again. She knew wherever her life was going, Paul would continue to be there until one or both of them were dead; she just needed to delay the inevitable.

Pushing into the bar, Maeve gave it a quick visual sweep and, deciding it was empty enough, proceeded to the counter. Some twenty-something was back there. "Where's John?" she asked, momentarily dismayed.

"In back. I'll get him," the young man returned.

Maeve watched him disappear through the swinging door, waited until John appeared. "Who's that?" she asked, nodding toward the new bartender.

"Figured I'd like a night off now and then," John smiled. "You know, for occasional dates or whatever."

Unsure whether his comment had anything to do with her, Maeve ignored it. "I need your help."

"Yeah? Rough night? What can I get you?"

"No, I mean . . . with something else."

The man narrowed his eyes, crossed his arms. "I'm listening."

Maeve took another apprehensive glance around the bar. "I hate them, but I need one," she said quietly, leaning toward John, who also leaned toward her.

"Hate what?" he nearly whispered.

Breathing deeply, she gave a curt self-assuring nod. "I need you to help me buy a gun."