orin couldn’t sleep. He got out of bed and turned on the light in the bathroom, checking in the mirror to make certain he was still there. The face that stared back at him was that of a stranger, but the eyes were familiar. He had seen those eyes look back at him for most of his life, but sometimes he was gone and they didn’t see him.

An array of yellow medicine bottles were lined up, according to size, on the vanity so he would see them every day when he got up and remember to take his medication. It had been several days now – he couldn’t remember exactly how many – since he had taken the pills. He could see himself now, but when he took the pills, his thinking got clouded and he faded away in the mist.

It was better, they had told him, if he stayed in the mist, hidden away. The pills worked so well that sometimes he even forgot he was there. But there was always a sense of something wrong, as if the universe were askew, and now he knew what it was. The pills might hide him, but they couldn’t make him go away.

He hadn’t been able to sleep since he stopped taking the pills. Oh, he dozed, but real sleep eluded him. Sometimes he felt as if he were shaking apart inside, though when he held out his hands, they were steady. Was there something addictive in the pills? Had they lied to him? He didn’t want to be a drug addict; addiction was a sign of weakness, his mother had always told him. He couldn’t be addicted because he couldn’t be weak. He had to be strong, he had to be perfect.

He heard an echo of her voice in his head. “My perfect little man,” she had called him, stroking his cheek.

Whenever he failed her, whenever he was less than perfect, her wrath had been so overwhelming his world would threaten to come apart at the seams. He would do anything to keep from disappointing his mother, but he had kept an awful secret from her: sometimes he had deliberately transgressed, just a little, so she would punish him. Even now the thought of those punishments sent a thrill through him. She would have been so disappointed if she had guessed his secret delight, so he had always struggled to keep his pleasure hidden.

Sometimes he missed her so much. She always knew just what to do.

She would know, for instance, what to do about those four bitches who mocked him with their list for being perfect. As if they knew what perfection was! He knew. His mother had known. He had always tried so hard to be her perfect little man, her perfect son, but he had always fallen short, even on those times when he wasn’t misbehaving just a little, on purpose, so she would punish him. He had always known there was an imperfection in him that he would never be able to correct, that he always disappointed his mother on a basic level just by being.

They thought they were so smart, the four bitches – he liked the way that sounded, the Four Bitches, like some perverted Roman deity. The Furies, the Graces, the Bitches. They tried to play it cute, hiding their identities by using A, B, C, and D instead of their names. There was one in particular he hated, the one who said, “If a man isn’t perfect, he should try harder.” What did they know? Had they ever tried to measure up to a standard so impossibly high only perfection could meet it, and fallen short every day of their lives? Had they?

Did they know what it was like for him to try and try, yet know deep inside he was going to fail, until finally he learned to enjoy the punishment because that was the only way he could live with it? Did they know?

Bitches like them didn’t deserve to live.

He could feel that inner shaking again, and he wrapped his arms around himself, holding himself together. It was their fault he couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t stop thinking about them, about what they said.

Which one was it? Was it that bleached blonde, Marci Dean, who swished her ass in front of all the men like she was some goddess and they were nothing but dogs who would come running whenever she wanted? He had heard she would sleep with anyone who asked, but that most of the time she beat them to the punch. His mother would have been appalled at such trashy behavior. “Some people don’t deserve to live.”

He could hear her whisper inside his head, the way she often did when he didn’t take the pills. He wasn’t the only one who disappeared when he took the medication the way they instructed; Mother disappeared, too. Maybe they went away together. He didn’t know, but he hoped so. Maybe she punished him for taking the pills and making her disappear. Maybe that was why he took the pills, so he and Mother could go away and… No, that wasn’t right. When he took the pills, it was as if he didn’t exist.

He felt the thought slipping away from him. All he knew was that he didn’t want to take the pills. He wanted to find out which bitch was which. That sounded funny so he repeated it to himself, and silently laughed. Which bitch was which. That was good.

He knew where they all lived. He had gotten their addresses from their files at work. It was so easy, for anyone who knew how, and of course no one had questioned him.

He would go to her house and find out if she was the one who had said that awful, stupid thing. He was pretty sure it was Marci. He wanted to teach that stupid, vicious bitch a lesson. Mother would be so pleased.

Marci was a night owl, even during the workweek. She didn’t need much sleep, so even though she didn’t party nearly as hearty as she had when she was younger – say, in her thirties – she seldom went to bed before one A.M. She watched old movies on television; she read three or four books a week; she had even developed a fondness for cross-stitching. She had to laugh at herself whenever she picked up her cross-stitch hoop, because this had to be proof the party girl was getting old. But she could empty out her mind when she was working cross-stitch. Who needed meditation to gain inner serenity when she could get the same effect by duplicating with needle and thread a small colored pattern of Xs? At least when she had completed a pattern, she had something to show for it.

In her time she had tried a lot of stuff that people probably wouldn’t expect of her, she thought. Meditation. Yoga. Self-hypnotism. Finally she had decided a beer worked just as well and her insides were as serene as they were going to get. She was what she was. If anyone didn’t like it, screw ‘em.

Usually, on a Friday night, she and Brick would hit a couple of bars, do some dancing, drink a few beers. Brick was a fine dancer, which was surprising because he looked like someone who would rather die than get on a dance floor, kind of a cross between a truck driver and a biker. He wasn’t much of a conversationalist, but he sure had some moves.

She had thought about going out without him, but the idea wasn’t very exciting. With all the hoopla this week about that damn List, she was a little tired. She wanted to settle down with a book and rest. Maybe tomorrow night she’d go out.

She missed Brick. She missed his presence, anyway, if not him in particular. When he wasn’t in the sack or on a dance floor, he was pretty boring. He slept; he drank beer; he watched television. That was it. He wasn’t a great lover, either, but he sure was an eager one. He was never too tired and was always willing to try anything she wanted.

Still, Brick was just further proof she wasn’t any good at picking men. At least she wasn’t stupid enough any longer to marry them. Three times was enough, thank you. Jaine fretted because she’d been engaged three times, but at least she hadn’t actually married three times. Besides, Jaine just hadn’t met anyone yet who could hold his own with her. Maybe that cop…

Hell, probably not. Life had taught Marci that things seldom worked out just right. There was always a bump in the road, a glitch in the software.

It was after midnight when the doorbell rang. She placed a bookmark between the pages so she wouldn’t lose her place and got up from the couch where she had been sprawled. Who on earth could that be? It wouldn’t be Brick returning, because he had a key.

That reminded her: she needed to get her locks replaced. She was too cautious to simply get her key back and assume he hadn’t made a duplicate. So far he hadn’t displayed any thieving habits, but one never knew what a man might do when he was pissed at a woman.

Because she was cautious, she looked through the peephole. She frowned and stepped back to unlock the door and remove the chain. “Hey,” she said, opening the door. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” said Corin, and hit her in the head with the hammer he had been holding against his leg.