He doesn’t carry me, but he does hoist me out of the car, usher me through the gate, propel me up the stairs, my arm flung across his football-field back, my feet half dragged behind me, the crook of the umbrella jaunting over one wrist, as if we’re out for a stroll. A drugged-stupid stroll.

The sun nearly caves in my eyelids. At the landing Little slides the key into the lock, pushes; the door sails wide, slamming so hard that the glass shivers.

I wonder if the neighbors are watching. I wonder if Mrs. Wasserman has just seen an economy-size black man drag me into my house. I bet she’s calling the cops right now.

There’s scarcely room for both of us in the hall—I’m squeezed to one side, pinned there, my shoulder pressed into the wall. Little kicks the door shut, and suddenly it’s dusk. I close my eyes, roll my head against his arm. The key scrapes into the second lock.

And then I feel it: the warmth of the living room.

And I smell it: the stale air of my home.

And I hear it: the squeal of the cat.

The cat. I’d completely forgotten about Punch.

I open my eyes. Everything is as it was when I plunged outside: the dishwasher yawning open; the skein of blankets tangled on the sofa; TV glowing, the Dark Passage DVD menu frozen on the screen; and on the coffee table, the two depleted bottles of wine, incandescent in the sunlight, and the four pill canisters, one of them toppled, as though drunk.

Home. My heart nearly detonates in my chest. I could sob with relief.

The umbrella slides from my arm, drops to the floor.

Little steers me to the kitchen table, but I wave my hand left, like a motorist, and we veer off-course toward the sofa, where Punch has wedged himself behind a pillow.

“There you go,” Little breathes, easing me onto the cushions. The cat observes us. When Little steps back, he sidewinds toward me, picking his way among the blankets, before turning his head to hiss at my escort.

“Hello to you, too,” Little greets him.

I ebb into the sofa, feel my heart slow, hear the blood singing softly in my veins. A moment passes; I grip my robe in my hands, regain myself. Home. Safe. Safe. Home.

The panic seeps from me like water.

“Why were people in my house?” I ask Little.

“What’s that?”

“You said that EMTs came into my house.”

His eyebrows lift. “They found you in the park. They saw your kitchen door open. They needed to see what was going on.”

Before I can respond, he turns to the photograph of Livvy on the side table. “Daughter?”

I nod.

“She here?”

I shake my head. “With her father,” I mutter.

His turn to nod.

He turns, stops, sizes up the spread on the coffee table. “Someone having a party?”

I inhale, exhale. “It was the cat,” I say. What’s that from? Goodness me! Why, what was that? Silent be, It was the cat. Shakespeare? I frown. Not Shakespeare. Too cutesy.

Apparently, I’m also too cutesy, because Little isn’t even smirking. “All this yours?” he asks, inspecting the wine bottles. “Nice merlot.”

I shift in my seat. I feel like a naughty child. “Yes,” I admit. “But . . .” It looks worse than it is? It’s actually worse than it looks?

Little fishes in his pocket for the tube of Ativan capsules that the lovely young doctor prescribed. He sets it on the coffee table. I mumble a thank-you.

And then, deep in the riverbed of my brain, something detaches itself, tumbles in the undertow, rises to the surface.

It’s a body.

It’s Jane.

I open my mouth.

For the first time, I notice the gun holstered at Little’s hip. I remember Olivia once gawking at a mounted policeman in Midtown; she ogled him for a solid ten seconds before I realized she was staring at his weapon, not his horse. I smiled then, teased her, but here it is, within arm’s reach, and I’m not smiling.

Little catches me. He tugs his coat over the gun, as though I’d been peeking down his shirt.

“What about my neighbor?” I ask.

He digs his phone from his pocket, brings it close to his eyes. I wonder if he’s nearsighted. Then he swipes it, drops his hand to his side.

“This whole house is just you, huh?” He walks toward the kitchen. “And your tenant,” he adds before I can do so. “That go downstairs?” He jabs a thumb toward the basement door.

“Yes. What about my neighbor?”

He checks his phone again—then stops, stoops. When he stands up, unfolding his hundred-yard body, he’s got the cat’s water bowl in his right hand and, in the left, the landline phone. He looks at one, then the other, as though weighing them. “Guy’s probably thirsty,” he says, stepping over to the sink.

I watch his reflection in the television screen, hear the gush of the faucet. There’s a shallow puddle of merlot left in one of the bottles. I wonder if I could knock it back without him seeing.

The water bowl rings against the floor, and now Little sets the phone in its dock, squints at the readout. “Battery’s dead,” he says.

“I know.”

“Just saying.” He approaches the basement door. “Can I bang on this?” he asks me. I nod.

He plays his knuckles against the wood—shave-and-a-haircut—and waits. “What’s your tenant’s name?”

“David.”

Little knocks again. Nothing.

He turns to me. “So where’s your phone, Dr. Fox?”

I blink. “My phone?”

“Your cell phone.” He waves his own at me. “You got one?”

I nod.

“Well, they didn’t find it on you. Most people would go straight for their phone if they’d been away all night.”

“I don’t know.” Where is it? “I don’t use it much.”

He says nothing.

I’ve had enough. I brace my feet against the carpet, haul myself upright. The room wobbles around me, a spinning plate; but after a moment it steadies, and I lock eyes with Little.

Punch congratulates me with a tiny meow.

“You all right?” Little asks, stepping toward me. “You good?”

“Yes.” My robe has flapped open; I gather it to my body, knot the sash tight. “What is happening with my neighbor?” But he’s stopped short, his eyes on his phone.

I repeat myself: “What—”

“Okay,” he says, “okay. They’re on their way over.” And now suddenly he’s surging through the kitchen like a great wave, his gaze revolving around the room. “Is that the window you saw your neighbor from?” He points.

“Yes.”

He strides to the sink, one long lunge of his long legs, props his palms on the counter, peers outside. I study his back, filling the window. Then I look at the coffee table, start to clear it up.

He turns. “Leave all that there,” he says. “Leave the TV on, too. What movie is that?”

“An old thriller.”

“You like thrillers?”

I fidget. The lorazepam must be running dry. “Sure. Why can’t I clean up?”

“Because we’ll want to see exactly what was going on with you when you witnessed the attack on your neighbor.”

“Doesn’t it matter more what was going on with her?”

Little ignores me. “Maybe put that cat somewhere,” he tells me. “Seems like he’s got an attitude. Don’t want him scratching anybody.” He pivots back to the sink, fills a glass with water. “Drink this. You need to stay hydrated. You’ve had a shock.” He crosses the room, puts it in my hand. There’s something almost tender about it. I half expect him to caress my cheek.

I bring the glass to my lips.

The buzzer rings.