While she showered the next morning, she thought she heard the front door close.

In naïve expectation, Abou had set three places at the table for breakfast, but John was gone by the time she entered the kitchen.

She wanted to get to the station house quickly, so the toast was finished in the car and Abou was still sipping his café au lait from a travel mug when she pulled into the parking lot behind the precinct.

With her protégé safely behind bars for another day, Carter briefed Fusco on the break-in and the risky trap they had set to catch the killers.

The partners decided to split their efforts to intensify the investigation of Aminata Diallo's murder. Fusco would go alone to the medical examiner's depressing cavern to get the official autopsy report.

Carter wanted to pay a return visit to the beauty parlor where Amie had braided hair for a living.

They agreed to meet at lunch to share information and decide on a new course of action.

After Fusco's exit, but before she could escape from her desk, Carter got another call from the anxious Finch.

She soon realized John had not told him about their hurriedly conceived night ambush.

So, in what she hoped were soothing tones, she described the plan. The explanation took longer than it should have because Finch interrupted frequently to express his disapproval.

"I know you're surprised, Harold. What can I say? I thought you knew what we were doing."

"No. I did not." An icy shiver crawled up her spine, as she was sure he had intended.

"But no harm, no foul, right?" She forced brightness into her voice.

"Everything was quiet on the home front last night, Harold. No break-ins, no problems."

Finch wasn't finished with her, however.

"Well, while you were playing cops-and-robbers, Detective, I spent the night widening our investigation. I searched a variety of data bases to locate additional information on the murder victim and those we believe may have wanted her dead."

He sounded quite satisfied with himself, she thought.

"So what did you learn, Harold? Tell me what you know."

"I can't give you details which would reveal the sources of my information. But I can share this much. I urge you to find out the meaning of two terms:

"First, Boubacar Bah."

He spelled out the proper name and waited as she tried to get the pronunciation right.

"Boubacar Bah arrived at Kennedy three weeks ago on a direct flight from Paris."

"So you broke into TSA data bases." She didn't ask for confirmation and he didn't offer any.

"Here's the second term: 'Blood-on-the-Sand Brigade.' It's the name of an armed militia based in the Sahel region of West Africa."

"What's it supposed to be up to, Harold?"

"My sources tell me the Brigade is an agent of a virulent new movement called Al Qaeda in the Islamic Maghreb."

He paused. As the meaning of his words sank in, she knew her breathing had slowed, but she kept silent to hear him out.

"You remember the recent seizure of that oil refinery deep in the desert reaches of southern Algeria?

"The group claiming responsibility for that violent assault called itself Al Qaeda in the Islamic Maghreb. Thirty-seven petroleum workers from six countries were killed in that raid, including four Americans."

Carter tried to relax her vocal cords, but she could hear the tension vibrating through her voice in a higher note than usual.

"Don't tell me you hacked into Homeland Security's classified files, Harold?"

She wanted him to hear the verbal equivalent of an eye roll even through the phone.

"I didn't say that, Detective, you did. Do you want me to go on or don't you?"

"Yes."

He continued with a wounded tone that she tried to ignore.

"Just last week a branch of Al Qaeda in the Islamic Maghreb executed four foreigners in northern Nigeria. You may have read about this atrocity in the Times."

She hissed out a confirmation that this story was familiar to her.

"The FBI also had some exceedingly interesting notes on the Blood-on-the-Sand Brigade."

"So what do they know?"

She felt like she was ripping the information out of him, shred by goddamned shred.

"The Bureau is working with counterpart agencies on three continents to track the activities of various off-shoots of Al Qaeda that have sprouted up on our shores far from their roots on the edge of the Sahara. The core members of the Brigade are Touareg nomads from northern Mali."

He stopped abruptly, as if he feared to tell more than the bare bones of the story.

She had to prompt him again to continue.

"So you think that this is Al Qaeda operating in New York City? You hacked into Homeland Security files and now you think Amie Diallo's neighbors were members of an Al Qaeda cell?"

"Not sure, Detective. But it's a working theory that has strong explanatory powers."

When Carter said nothing in response, Finch's next sentences sounded like an exasperated math teacher lecturing a remedial class.

"Look Detective, I'm helping you develop new leads. If you want to question my sources or complain about the ethics or argue with the conclusions, go right ahead.

"But I think you're wasting time. And endangering the life of your witness.

"Go find out whatever you can about the Blood-on-the-Sand Brigade. And find out who is Boubacar Bah."

He hung up before she could ask another question.

xxxxxxxxx

Fusco and Carter arrived at their designated lunch spot, the secluded Italian restaurant Verona, within two minutes of each other.

The owner, Rosaline, seated them at the green-and-white cloaked table they always claimed. But she was visibly disappointed when they turned their wineglasses upside down on the cloth. Ice water was their choice for this strictly working lunch.

After ordering their usual - seafood Alfredo for her and Rigatoni alla Vodka for him - the partners quickly began unpacking the information they had collected in their morning's work.

Carter sped through an account of her second interview with the beauticians and clients of Nu-Wave Locateria, the Bronx hair salon where Amie Diallo had worked.

Amie was a dedicated employee, even-tempered and reliable, they said.

Her hand was gentle and no tender head ever suffered under her care. Customers liked the imagination she applied to the braided designs she created for them.

During her three years at Nu-Wave Locateria, Amie had built up a loyal client list. But despite being in such high demand, the other stylists seemed not to resent her success.

"Good home training," was how one co-worker from Ghana summed up Amie's blend of innate politeness and modesty.

Another one, a Senegalese, remembered Amie's short life in numerical terms: "She was diligent for three years; happy for three months, terrified for three weeks."

No one at Nu-Wave admitted to any knowledge of either Boubacar Bah or the Blood-on-the-Sand Brigade.

Fusco remained silent during Carter's recital of these brief and poignant facts. He waited until the second round of coffee was steaming in front of them before beginning his summary of the M.E.'s findings.

"Ghoulie Gleason was in rare form this morning. That triple poisoning case that dropped over the weekend got him in a real good mood. He had such a chubby for those toxicology reports I couldn't hardly get him to focus on Amie at all."

Carter grimaced at the well-known relish of the medical examiner for the more ghastly aspects of his craft.

"So, what did he have?"

"Well, here's the headline: You know that knife gash to the neck? That didn't kill her. Gleason said she was already dead when the cutting started."

"What the hell?"

"Yeah, I said pretty much the same thing. Turns out she was strangled to death, Carter."

"How? By who?" She was sputtering as she digested this news.

"No clue. But Gleason says from the way the thumb and finger marks were positioned on her throat, the murderer was left-handed. Can you beat that? The bastard only used one hand to choke her to death."

Fusco shook his large head; Carter thought the terrible scene must be playing out in his imagination just as it was in hers.

"And he musta been standing right in front of her. So Ghoulie figures she musta knew him to let him get so close on her like that."

Carter sighed. She wanted to cry just a little, for Amie, for Abou, for this big unholy mess.

Instead, she took a long draught from her cup and let the coffee's bitter heat singe her tongue.

"Gleason get anything more from the autopsy?"

"Yeah, he did. Carter, put your cup down."

She did.

"Amie was pregnant. About three or four months gone, he says."

"Jesus Christ, Fusco!"

"Tell me about it. What a fucked up mess."

There wasn't much more to say. The subdued partners hurriedly wrapped up their meal and called for the check. Fusco let Carter pick up the tab since it was her turn.

As they walked back to the precinct, a sorrowful silence enveloped them.

Carter and Fusco played jaded cops most of the time, their jobs required it. But once in a long while they became just shocked parents and grieving citizens.

When they reached the steps leading up to the glass door entrance, Fusco paused, placing his hand gently on Carter's forearm.

"You gonna tell him about how his sister died?"

She shook her head and clutched at the pink-and-tan plaid scarf at her throat.

"No, I can't do that, Lionel. What good would it serve anyway? Not about the pregnancy either. Done and gone now. No point in getting him twisted up all over again for nothing."

Fusco nodded and lowered his eyes to stare at the cracked pavement under their feet.

"Yeah, you're right. Ya know, I was thinking about what you said that lady in the beauty parlor told you: Amie was three years hard working, three months happy, and three weeks terrified."

He rushed on to share his insight.

"I don't know about the first and the last, but that three months happy has to be because she knew she was pregnant."

Carter echoed his thought.

"She was happy because she was expecting a baby."

xxxxxxxxx

As Joss and Abou unloaded two paper bags of groceries on their third night together, John burst into the apartment.

He was buoyant, striding into her little kitchen with chest and elbows out, scorching the atmosphere with his energy and his focused excitement.

"Honey, I'm home!"

His broad Ricky Riccardo accent made her laugh and Abou caught the electric air and laughed too.

As the cheerful sound bubbled around the room, she wondered, was this yet another chapter in the messy saga of their unsettled life together?

Could Abou, their accidental guest, be both a witness and a catalyst here, creating by his mere presence a new dynamic in their relationship? This was a change for sure, but she hesitated to name it out loud for fear the mood would evaporate.

John had a bag full of produce too: firm tomatoes, onions, chili peppers, carrots, scallions, green peas and a slab of fresh fish wrapped in white paper and tied up in string.

"I bet you don't have any tomato paste either. So I brought three cans of that too." Mischievous and sly, he bumped his hip against hers in playful parody of conjugal bliss.

He was mocking her she knew. But he looked so handsome and carefree that she took it in good humor and made room for his purchases on the short counter top between the oven and the refrigerator.

Abou recognized the ingredients for Jollof Rice immediately. Chirping excitedly, he began pulling from the drawers all the knives he could find in preparation for the cooking session.

With much banging and clanging, the two chefs unearthed a huge pot suitable for their purpose and decided that the remains in the dented box of white rice were enough to feed the three of them, barely.

Joss quickly realized she was superfluous in her own kitchen and backed out of the tiny space as the two left-handed blade masters sliced through the mound of vegetables: it was both a thing of exquisite beauty and a scary proposition to watch them in action.

But stretching out on the sofa had its attractions too, so she left them to their cooking and took up a two-month old issue of Better Homes and Gardens in the living room.

The day's disturbing investigation, with its sad picture of an innocent life gone horribly wrong, receded from her mind a little as she lay in the pool of lamplight washing over her shoulders.

She wanted a beer to welcome the evening, but she knew that Abou didn't drink alcohol and John seemed inclined to respect that practice for the night as well.

So she contented herself with the unusual chance for quiet reflection and spent the hour just listening to the happy sounds of John and Abou at work.

xxxxxxxxx

With the meal finally assembled and grandly displayed in steaming red heaps of rice, crisp fish and jewel-like vegetables on three plates, the men seated Joss in the place of honor at the head of the table.

Abou sat to her right, John to her left.

"Will you be pissed if we don't speak in English during dinner?"

The twinkling eyes and flash of teeth was unnecessary; she would have agreed anyway, but it was exhilarating to see John in such an expansive mood and so she made a show of giving in to his request.

"I guess it's alright," she drawled with a grin. "As long as you don't speak about me in some language I can't understand."

They agreed to her rule and the conversation swirled on around her.

She recognized some words in French and could guess at a few Arabic terms from her time in Iraq.

But in all, the talk was a pleasant buzz that surrounded her but did not involve her. She focused on the fragrant rice and succulent vegetables and it was all so wonderful that she lost track of the passage of time.

She couldn't remember the last time she had spent two nights in a row with John and she cherished the chance to relax with him now, even in these weird circumstances.

She guessed she owed Abou a huge debt of gratitude for being the unwitting cause of this rare opportunity.

Eventually however, she heard her name inserted into the jumble of foreign sentences.

Cart-AIRE this. Cart-AIRE that. Did Abou even know her first name?

"O.K. now, fellas. You remember what I said. No talking about me in front of my face like that. You better not be calling me out my name."

When John translated, she noted that his cheeks flushed a ruddy color like that of the Jollof
Rice on their plates.

"Abou asked me if you were a faithful wife."

Propping chin on hand, she crinkled her eyes and looked squarely at him.

"And what did you tell Abou?"

"I said yes, you were."

She nodded and waited to hear him out.

As if acknowledging the importance of the covert admission, John continued at a faster pace.

"He said that a faithful wife was a man's most treasured possession, a prize beyond measure."

"A possession?"

"Well, that was his term, Joss. Not mine."

"But you agreed?"

"Didn't see any point in arguing with the chef. Not after that great meal, right?"

Then he smiled in such a captivating manner that she laughed to let him off the hook. Her part ended, the men's conversation returned to its indecipherable origins.

When their talk retreated from raucous subjects to take on a mellower tone, Carter decided she wanted to throw out the question she had been holding close to her heart all evening.

She swung her shoulders around and faced Abou on her right.

"Who is Boubacar Bah?"

She wanted to catch him unawares and she did.

His eyes started in his head and she thought the whites sparked with a few threads of crimson. Then he lowered his gaze to study the grain of the wood table between them.

He spoke in English.

"I am Boubacar Bah."

"When did you come to New York?"

"I came four months ago from Mali."

"Why did you tell us your name was Abou Diallo?"

He hesitated. Then he raised his smooth opaque face and looked her straight in the eye.

"Because Boubacar and Abou are the same name. And Diallo is the name of my mother's father. It is what Amie chose to call herself here in New York. So I did too."

She saw from the corner of her eye that John was processing this new information.

The minute blink of recognition at the name Boubacar Bah told her that Finch had given him the same information he had shared that morning with her.

But as John chose not to make anything of it right away, she held her counsel.

xxxxxxxxx

After-dinner cleanup was Joss's specialty and she performed the chore with speed and gusto.

While she washed the plates and scraped the burnt rice from the bottom of the pot, the two men swept her candles and magazines from the coffee table to make room for a board game.

Taylor's battered Parcheesi set — brightly painted wooden markers chipped but still serviceable - seemed to delight them. She was happy to see the ancient game used again after all those years on the upper shelf in the hall closet.

She wanted to speak with her son, to re-connect, even though it had been less than half a week's separation.

So she called him in his Washington motel room and took in a Tweet-length account of the adventures of his class trip to the nation's capital. She could hear the giggles of male and female teenagers in the background as they talked.

Taylor sounded tired, content, and safe. This was all she could ask for, really.

"How was he?"

John stretched out on their bed as she washed up in the bathroom.

They had closed the door on Abou and retreated together, hoping he would accept re-assignment to the living room sofa without protest.

"Taylor was fine. He sounded good, like he was having fun, learning lots, enjoying the time away."

She muffled her sigh with an extra stroke of the tooth brush.

"He misses you, don't worry about that." Mind-reading and consoling again.

"Joss, come here." He held out his arms to her.

She tugged back the heavy quilt and they slowly arranged themselves under its welcoming shelter.

He pulled her close to his chest. They were both naked and warm and full and sleepy.

"I want you to promise me one thing."

He looked so solemn that it frightened her. As he pushed the cover away from their bodies, his eyes, shimmering toward blue, seemed particularly hard and bright.

"I want you to promise me you will burn that god-awful flannel thing you were wearing last night. Just thinking about it gives me the creeps!"

He shivered to demonstrate his disgust.

"You didn't let it get in the way last night, as I recall."

"You recall correctly. But I don't want to have to tackle it ever again, O.K.?"

The faintest smile flickered on his lips. She saw the tip of his tongue, erect and dancing between his teeth.

"Aye, aye, captain." She shifted so that her stomach fit against his and the raw jut of his hip bone probed the softer prominence of her own.

Then his quicksilver mood changed again.

The smile vanished and he pressed his forehead against hers, his hands cupped over her ears.

"I want to make love to you, Joss. Slowly. Carefully. May I?"

She answered him with a kiss, taking his tongue into her mouth. The talking stopped for several sweet moments.

"But I want to hear you say it to me."

He was panting slightly, but focused, insistent. "Say yes to me, Joss."

"Yes."

"Say my name to me."

"John. Yes, John."

In the light of the lamps on either side of the bed, their bodies glowed with the sheen of sweat and desire. He slid his frame completely over hers, blanketing her with his size and his ardor. She felt small, cosseted, enclosed.

When he took her that night, she marveled at the way the friction of his body unhinged her so immediately and utterly.

For an impossible run of minutes she felt as though she were loosed from her body, clinging to the ceiling looking down as they writhed together on the bed.

From that vantage, she could see only his broad pale shoulders bunching under her brown hands, the creases flexing at his trembling flanks, and the rhythmic contraction of his sleek muscles as he thrust into her again and again.

She was deliciously pinned beneath his weight and yet imagined herself flying unfettered above him at the same time.

From where she drifted, the tensing and relaxing, the closing and retreating of their bodies seemed to go on in this exalted dance forever.

She could feel his hand molding around her breast, his lips latching onto their place at her nipple. But all she could see from on high was the urgent bobbing of his dark head as he pulled and pulled and took and took from her.

His suckling sent a shower of darts racing to every nerve ending and pulse point in her body; she wanted to, needed to arch upward, her power meeting his power. And from above she could see her brown knees gripping his hips to drive him on.

Floating, she could see the small of his back flush in slick crimson patches. Excitement rising now, she saw her insistent heels reddening his skin at that tender spot.

From so far away, how could she hear his soft groans urging her onward? Hear the damp gasping that must be her own faint voice? Hear the moist slapping of flesh against flesh where they joined together?

But in that moment she could hear everything, see everywhere. Together they were beautiful.

Where their bodies joined, he slipped his long fingers and caressed her until she cried out. This reversed ecstasy brought her back to herself: returned into her own body at last, she convulsed in a star-sprung flash of heat and light around him.

Then John sighed and kissed her and called her his darling. And then he cried out to his God and cursed and pulsed inside her.

Afterward, they were so far lost in their sleep that they didn't hear Abou, or Boubacar as he was, creep in to take his usual place on the floor at the foot of their bed.

xxxxxxxxx

Sometime in the dead of night, Joss awoke with a start. She felt cold and reached to pull the covers up around her.

John was standing beside the bed, naked and poised on one foot, struggling to get into his jeans.

He raised an index finger to his lips, pointed to the door, and then gestured at her to get out of bed too. He pulled the zipper up, but strode toward the door without fastening the button at the waistband.

It was only when she rose from the bed to search for her t-shirt and shorts that she saw Abou's pillow and blanket crumpled together on the floor.

He had been in the room sleeping as usual, but was nowhere to be seen now.

By the time she was clothed and standing in the open doorway, she could hear the muffled noises of a struggle in the front rooms.

She slid along the hallway, her steps balanced on the edges of her feet to give her leverage. She gripped her service revolver in one hand as the other pressed against the wall to steady her passage down the dark corridor.

When she peered around the corner to scan the expanse of the living room, she was transfixed by the moon-dappled tableau that confronted her.

In grim silence, John wrestled with two shadowy figures near the front door.

The men were dressed in loose shirts of palest blue that read white in the scattered light. She could see the folds of their garments swirling around them as they lunged and darted in the desperate fight.

Their skin was the color of roasted almonds, though the moon threw ashen shadows across their features.

Framed in the door of the kitchen, Abou loomed over a third man, dressed like the others in a blue tunic which exposed his tawny arms, bare throat, and wispy black beard.

Joss noted that Abou was wearing her son's gray sweatpants. Ludicrously, given the dire circumstances, she wondered if his exposed ankles and bare feet felt cold.

Suddenly, John flung his forearm into the face of one assailant, connecting with the nose in a crunching sound that reverberated across the room. To Joss's surprise, the man didn't cry out, but he did stumble backwards, leaving the space in front of John to a second attacker.

The other man was more compact than his comrade and ducked John's flailing fist, aiming his head toward John's torso. John crouched and using the full force of his thighs brought his clenched hands in an upward arc that lifted the man's chin backwards.

Joss could see the startled anguish on the short man's face as his entire body sprang into the air with the force of John's blow. The man landed hard on his back, his four limbs writhing above his trunk at awkward angles.

When the first attacker returned to the fray, Joss crept swiftly behind him. She could see a dagger glinting in his fist as he raised it above his head.

John caught her eye for an instant and they moved in unison: he swung high to block the knife thrust; she aimed the blade of her foot at the man's left knee, buckling it inward as she struck. He crumpled over his shattered knee. With the assailant on the floor and howling in pain, Joss reversed her gun and delivered a decisive blow to his left temple.

Silent again, blood from the man's head wound dripped until it mingled with the torrent gushing from his damaged nose.

Simultaneously, Joss and John pivoted to where Abou still fought the third attacker.

She had been mistaken about the man's height: now he appeared several inches taller than Abou, his bearded face close to the boy's stony profile.

Then she saw the terrible reason for the change.

Abou held the man suspended four inches off the ground, his left hand fastened at the other's throat like a vise around a flimsy balsawood pole.

As she watched, Abou tightened his grip, the knuckle tendons bulging as his fingers dug for their grim victory.

She heard the windpipe collapse with a sickening crack.

The man's legs flailed twice, then his feet twitched, then nothing.

With a peculiar care, Abou laid the dead man on the bare floor at the edge of the carpet and stood in the kitchen doorway, blinking.

"Get your cuffs, Joss. Now." John's bark stopped her trembling and she ran to the bedroom.

When she returned the lights were on and the wreckage was on full display.

John had dragged the two living intruders toward the radiator under the window across from the front door. He used one set of handcuffs to fasten the captives to the pipes.

Then he took Abou by the hand, his fist enclosed in the boy's larger one as it had been on that first day in Amie's kitchen.

John led Abou to the sofa, and with gentle pressure on his shoulders, pushed him to sit on the middle cushion.

Joss hesitated, but at a nod from John she clapped the second set of handcuffs on Abou's thin wrists.

Sagging under the burden of sudden revelation, she sat heavily in the high backed wing chair facing the couch. John stood behind her vibrating with coiled energy.

His hands gripped the back of the chair, framing her head and sending waves of barely contained anger shooting through the chair's upholstery.

She heard his shallow panting and imagined his fierce gaze was trained on the young murderer.

John was angry at Abou, she imagined, but also at her. And above all, he was furious with himself. None of this was preventable, but she knew he would think otherwise.

It seemed that the three of them might remain riveted in place for eternity, until John began speaking, using English for this final conversation.

"We are going to have to lock you up, you know."

Abou nodded, but kept his eyes toward the floor in what Joss took for submission and respect.

She seized the lead then, her questions jumping out at him in staccato rhythm.

"Who is Boubacar Bah?"

"I am Boubacar Bah."

"Who is Aminata Diallo?"

"Amie is my sister. The second wife of my older brother, Al Hajji Hassan Bah."

The boy shifted in the soft cushion, still leaning forward, his manacled hands clutched between his knees. She wondered if she could still call him Abou? What could she think about him? Or really know about him?

"Why did you come here?"

"My brother paid for Amie's ticket to America three years ago. He paid for her school fees. And when he died eight months ago, I became her husband. I saved money to buy a ticket to join her in America. I arrived here three weeks ago."

"Do you know that Amie was pregnant?"

"Yes. With the child of another man."

He inclined his head toward the dead intruder.

"That man. Touareg filth."

His voice was firmer now, confident in its clipped scorn.

"She brought a shame on our family. On my brother. On me."

"So you killed her?"

"Yes. It was required."

The rest of the story was simple.

Abou knew that the men next door to Amie were members of the Blood-on-the-Sand Brigade; he had met their comrades in Mali and knew of their activities in the U.S.

Amie knew who they were too. But she didn't care about the clear danger Al Qaeda posed to her, to everyone.

When he arrived in New York three weeks ago, he discovered that Amie was already involved in an adulterous affair with her neighbor, already pregnant.

Abou resolved to kill her then and waited until the right day to strike.

"Why did you cut her?" John spit out the question, interrupting the narrative.

"I wanted Al Qaeda to be blamed. They were the cause. They were to blame."

xxxxxxxxx

By the time Joss called the police, dawn's pink streaks had penetrated the solemn apartment. The sunlight felt giddy and fresh; the new morning promised that spring was not far off.

She had thrown on a sapphire blue silk shirt just back from the cleaners and tucked it into black jeans; her tough low boots made her feel like she was on the job once more and the navy knit vest warded off the chill she felt as she reentered the living room.

John, dressed now in his black suit, stood ramrod straight near the kitchen's back door, his eyes locked on the scene in the adjacent room. With his white shirt uncharacteristically buttoned to the throat, Joss thought he looked like a priest called to the scene of a parish tragedy.

When she drew near to him she caught fragments of his conversation with Finch.

"…two different threats, Harold... No way you could've pick up the second…she's doing O.K….won't ask for it…"

She interrupted their exchange to urge John to leave the apartment, knowing the cops were near. He refused, still eyeing Abou who sat motionless and shackled on the sofa.

The two injured men whimpered near the radiator, rattling their cuffs once before subsiding into dejected silence.

The dead man's thin body was draped with his sky blue tunic, the dusty shroud drawn up to cover his face.

Fusco hustled first into the apartment, holstering his gun when he saw Joss standing unharmed beside the sofa.

She could hear the team of crime scene technicians squabbling cheerfully with each other as they plodded up the stairs behind him.

Before they entered, she motioned to Fusco, directing his gaze toward the kitchen.

He saw John, cloaked in shadows there, and raised his chin in recognition. John nodded in reply.

The guard was changed.

Joss stepped quickly past the refrigerator, blocking John's exit through the back door.

She wanted this moment of farewell before the commotion and formalities of the day swamped everything.

Raising a hand, she grazed her fingers once over his jaw, cuticles catching on the white-flecked stubble there.

John leaned his head into her touch and when he shut his eyes, she hoped the gesture was a promise to return.

Would it be nine days wait this time? Or four? Or only until tomorrow?

She closed her eyes too, swaying slightly. His scent, the sweat blending with their sex in that idiosyncratic tang on his skin, vanquished her again.

When she opened her eyes, he was gone.