I barely recognize the girl standing in front of me. Trish is smiling, her eyes bright and her face radiant. Gone is the aura of sadness and fear that surrounded her before. She's wearing a clean pair of jeans with a crisp white blouse and a pair of loafers on her feet. Her hair is brushed back from her face and shines with a healthy glow. She smells faintly of the same scent - lavender and lemon. Could it be soap or shampoo?

She looks happy.

Sorrel again?

I take a step toward her. "Are you all right?"

She nods. "Of course. Everyone is so nice. Mr. Frey was right when he said I'd be safe here." She lowers her voice in a conspiratorial whisper, though the smile never wavers. "I'm not sure what this place is exactly. Mr. Frey said it was some kind of secret headquarters, like you see in movies. But I'm not supposed to know any more than that or he'd have to kill me."

She giggles at a joke I don't find the least bit funny. Just as I wonder about Trish's demeanor.

I motion to one of the two chairs and beckon Trish to take a seat. She does. I follow suit, facing her, feeling like a counselor in a therapy session. Maybe that's what this room is used for.

But I don't know how to begin this session.

Trish is looking at me, an amused half-smile touching the corners of her mouth. "I figure you're here because things are better now, right? You've caught those men and it's safe for me to go home. Ryan must be going crazy. I wasn't allowed to call him from here. Mr. Frey said he would let him know that I was all right. Ryan wouldn't believe him, though. He'd want to talk to me himself, so we'd better stop by his house on the way home."

Her words run together in a bubbling torrent of joyful speculation. She seems to have completely forgotten her mother's part in what happened to her - or to have excused it. I can't believe that one any more than I can understand the other.

"You want to go home?" I ask her gently.

She nods. Something in my expression must trigger doubt then, because the smile falters, a flicker of uncertainty dims the brightness in her eyes. "What's wrong?"

I wait a heartbeat too long to answer.

Trish jumps to her feet. "Has something happened to my mother?"

I wish I could come up with some way to make this easier for her. I actually consider reminding her of the reason she's here, but that would be replacing one horror with another. I push myself up out of the chair.

"Trish, I'm sorry. Something has happened. Your mother was killed last night. The police are looking into it. And I will, too, of course."

I realize I'm rambling, the same way Trish did moments before. But Trish is staring at me, empty-eyed and slack-jawed, all traces of life gone from her face. I take a step toward her, but she backs away.

"I'm really sorry, Trish. I wish I could make this easier for you. Your grandmother is here. She doesn't know where you are. If you'd like, I can get a message to her."

As I speak the words, I want to bite them back. Why did I say that? I can't imagine that cold, arrogant bitch being of any comfort to Trish. I just don't know what else to offer. Trish doesn't know about the relationship she has to my family. I'm afraid telling her will only add to her confusion about her mother.

Trish is staring at me, but with the shocked, glazed expression of one whose thoughts are turned inward. I can only imagine what terrible images are projecting themselves inside her head.

"Trish? Talk to me, honey."

Comprehension creeps into her eyes. Like a drowning man who has been pulled from the sea, she draws a deep, ragged breath. Her chest heaves, but there are no tears. She begins to shake. I slip out of my jacket and hold it out to her. But once again, she draws back.

"How did it happen?" she asks.

The picture of Carolyn's battered face and the knowledge of what had been done to her comes rushing back. But I could no more tell Trish any of that than I could remind her of why she is here. I lay the jacket on the back of a chair, using the time to gather my thoughts before answering.

"The police aren't sure." It seems the least painful response.

But she grasps the ambiguity and it sparks a flash of anger. "Don't," she snaps. "Don't treat me like a child. You know what happened to me. You know the part my mother played in it. Was she killed like Barbara? Was she killed because of me?"

I realize now that the image Trish projected when she first walked into this room had nothing to do with Sorrel. Trish wanted desperately to believe the things that happened to her were a nightmare from which she had finally awakened. Twenty-four hours in a safe environment and the possibility that her life might be her own again had made her giddy with youthful optimism.

God, I do not want to be the one to shatter the illusion. And yet, this is the second time I've been the bearer of bad news. Telling her about Barbara was bad enough. How on earth can I tell her about her mother?

I've never felt so helpless. I'm the adult. I should have instincts about this sort of thing. But seeing the distress in her face and the dread in her eyes renders me speechless.

I wish my mother was here.

The door opens, and for just an instant I irrationally think maybe it's my mother come to rescue us.

But of course, it's not. Frey comes in and his expression softens when he looks at Trish.

"Anna told you about your mother? I'm so sorry."

Trish goes to him, letting him put his arms around her, leaning against him and accepting from him the kind of solace she refused from me.

It's a bitter rebuff. If I'm to believe Sorrel, Trish is my niece. I should be the one comforting her. I take a step toward them.

I look into Frey's eyes and he seems to be reading my reaction. He shakes his head gently in a warning to respect Trish's feelings.

It stops me. I know he's right. Trish needs to have someone she can open up to. I'd hoped it would be me. But we've only known each other one day. Frey is a teacher she likes and respects. It's natural she would choose him.

I don't have to like it, though.

Frey guides Trish over to one of the chairs and gently lowers her into it. She sits, clutching one of his hands as if afraid to let go. He smiles down at her and then turns to me.

"There's someone outside who wants to talk to you," he says.

"To me?" I ask, surprised. "Who knows I'm here?"

He shakes his head, sitting down beside Trish. "Don't worry. It's someone you know. He's waiting for you outside the door."

His words are a subtle push for me to leave the two of them alone. I bend down to look at Trish, to engage her eyes. "I'll be right outside, Trish. If you need me, Frey will come get me."

She is looking at me, but I can't tell whether my words are registering. All I see in her eyes is a dreadful void.

I straighten up. "Frey, can I talk to you outside a minute?"

He seems hesitant, but the expression on my face must convey the meaning behind my words. I'm not asking. He opens his hand, freeing himself from Trish's grasp. She gives a little gasp and reaches for him again, but he strokes her hair and says softly, "It's all right. I'll be right outside the door."

She doesn't look reassured but she lets her hand drop into her lap and offers no objection.

Frey follows me out of the room. As soon as the door is closed behind us, I round on him.

"What are you going to say to her?" I snap. "You don't know what happened to Carolyn."

Frey is looking past me.

I turn, too, and at the same time a familiar voice interjects itself into my head. He knows, Anna, I filled him in.

And there is Chief Williams, out of uniform now, but looking as clearly at home in these surroundings as he did an hour or so ago in his office.