he girl who had come forward--Andrea Kinnear--lived with two roommates in a small 1930s brick Tudor near the university. A messy brown yard led up to a porch that was littered with empty planter boxes and mismatched chairs. The only holiday decoration was a colorful snowman stuck to the front window. A stack of empty Rainier beer cans formed a pyramid beside the door.

Jack paused at the gate. "Wait here," he said to Kirk, his cameraman, and Sally. "Let me introduce myself first."

Then he faced the house. He'd never done anything like this before, an on-camera interview with the victim of a violent crime, and he was nervous.

Alleged victim.

That was the kind of distinction that mattered in the news biz. Pros like Dan Rather and Bob Costas probably didn't even have to remind themselves of it.

Jack was out of his league here, no doubt about it. But he'd go down in flames before he'd let this story out of his hands. As the old saying went, another reporter would have to pry the notes from Jack's cold, dead fingers.

He walked down the cracked, moss-furred concrete pavers and climbed onto the splintered porch. Sally and Kirk followed him at a respectful distance.

He knocked at the door.

A few moments passed, so many that he started to worry that Andrea had changed her mind. He glanced back at Sally, who shrugged.

Then the door opened. A small, pale young woman with carrot-red hair stood in the opening. She wore a cotton twill skirt, white blouse, and navy blazer.

"Hello, Mr. Shore." She cleared her throat, then added, "I'm Andrea."

"It's nice to meet you, Andrea. Please, call me Jack. And this is my associate, Sally Maloney."

Sally stepped forward. "Hello, Andrea. We spoke on the phone."

"It's nice to meet you."

Andrea stepped back into the house. "Come in."

Jack motioned to the cameraman, who immediately started toward the house.

Andrea led them to a small living room that was crowded with garage-sale furniture. Papers and coffee mugs covered every table. She turned to Jack. "Where would you like me to sit?"

Kirk answered, "How about that chair by the window?"

Andrea sat down, though her body remained stiffly upright, her hands clasped tightly together.

Jack sat down opposite her, on a faded denim ottoman. While the camera was being set up, he looked through his notes for the thousandth time; then he put them aside. "I'm just going to ask you some very straightforward questions, okay? I won't ambush you or anything like that." He frowned. She looked... fragile suddenly. "Are you sure you're okay with this?"

Great reporter, Jack. Way to go for the kill.

"It's just... humiliating."

Sally moved in close, touched Jack's shoulder, then drew back. It was the signal; they were rolling film now. Jack knew he could stop, introduce her for the camera and officially begin the interview, but he didn't want to interrupt what he'd already started. Instead, he leaned toward her and said, "You have nothing to be ashamed of, Andrea."

She tried to smile. It was heartbreaking to see. "How about stupidity? I didn't even get to know him. I saw him across the room and knew who he was--everyone knew him. I was a cheerleader in high school--Corvallis--and I used to watch him play. He always seemed so... perfect. I knew girls came up to him all the time, and I wasn't pretty enough or cool enough, but that night I'd had a few drinks and I was brave. I thought: maybe, you know? So, I went up to him and started a conversation. At first, he was so nice. He really looked at me, like I was someone who mattered. When he went over to the keg for a beer, he brought me back one, and when other girls came up to him, he blew them off and stayed with me. The way he smiled at me... touched me when he talked... it made me feel so special." Her voice cracked. She fingered the gold cross that hung from a delicate chain around her throat.

Jack thought: You are special, and you shouldn't need a boy to prove it. It was what he hoped someone would have said to his own daughters.

She let go of the cross, let her hand fall to her lap. Her gaze followed. "After a while, the party started breaking up. Drew--"

"Grayland?"

"Yes. He was telling me a funny story about last week's practice, and when I looked around, I saw that only a few people were still in the room. There was a couple standing by the television, making out. Another few guys were at the keg. Drew leaned over and kissed me. It was so... gentlemanly. When he asked me to come up to his room, I said yes." As the admission leaked out, she paled. Her lower lip trembled; she bit down on it. "I shouldn't have done that."

This time Jack couldn't help himself. She was so damned young. "You're nineteen, Andrea. Don't judge yourself too harshly. Trusting someone isn't a crime."

Her gaze found his. It was surprisingly steady. "What he did to me was a crime, though."

"What... did he do?" He winced at his own hesitation, hoping they could edit it out.

"At first we were just lying on the bed, kissing, but he started getting aggressive. He held me down so I couldn't move, and his kisses... I couldn't breathe. I started pushing him away, but that made him laugh. He grabbed me, hard. I started yelling at him, screaming for him to get off me."

Jack could see how hard she was trying not to cry.

"He hit me once in the face. No one's ever hit me before. It isn't like the movies. It hurt so much I couldn't even cry. And then he was ripping my clothes off, yanking my underwear down. I heard them rip. Then... then..." When she looked up, her eyes were glazed with tears. "He raped me."

Jack pulled out a handkerchief and handed it to her.

"Thank you," she whispered, wiping her eyes. It was a moment before she went on. "I don't even remember leaving the house. My roommate took me to the emergency room, but we had to wait forever. I finally gave up and went home."

"You didn't see a doctor that night?"

"No. What was the point? I watch lots of lawyer shows on television. I knew people would say I asked for it. I went to his room and followed him onto the bed."

Jack realized that his hands had balled into fists. He softened his voice; it seemed grotesque suddenly, asking these intimate questions for a bit on the six o'clock news. "Did you tell anyone beside your roommate? Your parents, maybe?"

She made a little sound, maybe a sob. "I couldn't. I guess I'll have to tell them tonight. But I went to the campus police the next day. I knew they wouldn't do anything, but I wanted to make sure they knew what he'd done to me."

"What happened?"

"An officer listened to my story, then excused himself and left the room. About fifteen minutes later Bill Seagel came in. He's the Panther athletic director. He laid it all out for me. How I had no proof, no doctor's report, no witnesses. How I could have walked into a wall to get my black eye, and how I'd been drinking. He told me nothing would happen to Drew if I came forward, but my college years would be ruined. So I shut up about it."

"Why did you come forward now?"

"I saw your report on the news." She looked up again. "I wasn't the only one, and they knew that. Those assholes knew it. I didn't want him to be able to hurt anyone else."

"So you went to the Portland police."

"It probably won't do any good, you know. I waited too long and did everything wrong. But I feel better. At least I'm not afraid anymore, and I'm not just lying there, taking it. Do you think I did the right thing?"

Jack knew he shouldn't answer. This interview wouldn't be much good if he ruined his credibility by showing that he cared.

But she was sitting there, staring at him through eyes that were heartbreakingly sad. And she was so damned young.

"I have a daughter who is just your age. My Jamie. I pray every day that she is safe at college. But if anything... bad ever happened to her, I'd hope she could be as brave as you've been today. You did the right thing."

Was that his voice, all soft and throaty? They'd have to redub his answer for sure. He sounded like he was going to cry, for God's sake.

"Thank you for that."

"Thank you for the interview."

After that, an awkwardness drifted between them. He noticed suddenly how close he was to her. Their on-air intimacy cracked apart, broke as quickly as it had formed. After that, everything felt uncomfortable. Jack didn't know what to say and Sally remained silent as they all went their separate ways. Kirk was the first to leave, then Jack and Sally said good-bye to Andrea and walked back to their car.

Jack didn't realize until much later, when he and Sally were driving toward the station, how shaken he was. How pissed off. "God damn Drew Grayland," he said, thumping his palm against the steering wheel for emphasis.

"How are we supposed to stay detached on something like this? I kept thinking about my little sister. She's a freshman, you know. I warned her about strangers, but what do you say about friends?"

"Hell, don't ask me. I was about as detached as her own father. My career is going to do a swan dive when this airs."

"Anyone who could sit with that girl and not be moved has no right to ask her those questions. She deserved your emotion."

There didn't seem to be much to say after that. He and Sally grabbed a hamburger with fries at the local drive-through restaurant window and ate their dinner on the road. Afterward, they spent the next four hours in the editing room. The poor holiday-crew editor finally threw his hands in the air. "That's it, Jacko. Either it's done or throw the sucker away. I'm goin' home."

Jack glanced at the clock. It was ten p.m. Too late to stop by the news director's house. Damn. He'd have to do it first thing in the morning; unfortunately, he was scheduled to fly out at seven a.m.

There was no way he could make that flight.

Elizabeth would kill him.

The nashville airport was quieter than normal for the holidays. Another sad sign of the uncertain times. Since September 11, every potential trip was considered carefully, weighed in importance. More and more people had chosen to stay home.

Elizabeth had arrived almost an hour early, and now she had to bide her time. She browsed through the newsstands and flipped through a magazine that promised her a "YOUNGER, FIRMER STOMACH IN TEN MINUTES A DAY--"

(Yeah, right.)

--and bought the newest Stephen King novel.

Finally, she went to the gate and took a seat in front of the dirty picture window that overlooked the runways.

She tapped her foot nervously on the floor. When she realized what she was doing, she forced herself to sit still.

It was embarrassing. A grown woman this excited to see her children. They'd probably have to lock her up or tie her down by the time she had grandkids.

She had never been one of those women who took her children for granted.

Stephanie had been twelve years old, a seventh grader with budding breasts and gangly legs and braces when Elizabeth had first realized: Time is running out. She'd watched her almost teenage daughter flirt with a boy for the first time, and Elizabeth had had to sit down. That was how unsteady it made her. In a split second, on a blistering cold winter morning, she'd glimpsed the fragile impermanence of her family and she'd never been the same since. After that, she'd videotaped every semiprecious moment, so persistently that her family groaned in unison every time she said hold it! They knew it meant she was going for the camera.

She heard an announcement come over the speaker and she looked up.

The plane had pulled up to the Jetway ramp.

She stood up but didn't move forward. The girls hated it when she crowded to the front of the line. She'd learned that back in the old ski bus days. Once she'd even--God forbid--dared to walk into the school to meet them.

We're not babies, Mom -- Jamie had said impatiently.

Of course, Jamie said almost everything impatiently. Her younger daughter had been in a hurry from the moment she was born. She'd started walking at nine months, had been talking at two years, and she hadn't slowed down since. She ate life with unapologetic enthusiasm and took as many helpings as she wanted.

"Mom!"

Stephanie emerged from the crowd of passengers. As usual, she was the picture of decorum--pressed khaki pants, white turtleneck, black blazer. Her chestnut-brown hair was pulled off her face and held in place by a black velvet headband. Her makeup was lightly, but perfectly, applied. Even as a child, Stephanie had had an invisible, unshakable grace. Nothing was beyond her grasp. Everything she did, she did well.

Elizabeth ran forward, hugged her daughter fiercely.

"What?" Stephanie said, laughing as she drew back. "No camera to record the auspicious event of our deplaning?"

"Very funny." Elizabeth's throat felt embarrassingly tight. She hoped it didn't ruin her voice. "Where's your sister?"

"There was a seating mix-up. We got separated."

Jamie was the last person off the plane. She stood out from the crowd like some gothic scarecrow. First there was her height, almost six feet, and her hair color--cornsilk blond that fell in a wavy line to her waist. And then there was her outfit. Skintight black leather pants, black shirt that must have sported a dozen silver zippers, and black combat boots. The mascara around her blue eyes was thick as soot.

She pushed through the crowd like a linebacker. "God almighty," she said instead of hello. "That was the worst flight of my life. The child next to me should be institutionalized."

Nothing was ever in between to Jamie; it was either the best or the worst.

She kissed Elizabeth's cheek. "Hi, Mom. You look tired. Where's Dad?"

Elizabeth laughed. "Thanks, honey. Your dad had to stay behind for a day. Some big story."

"Gee, what a shock." Jamie barely paused for a breath and started talking again. "Could they put more seats in that plane? I mean, really. When the guy in front of me leaned back, my tray dropped down and almost snapped my jaw off. And you have to be Calista Flockhart to get out of your seat."

Jamie was still talking when they pulled up to the house.

Daddy and Anita must have heard the car drive up (they'd probably been standing at the window for the last thirty minutes, waiting impatiently); they were already on the porch, holding hands, grinning.

Jamie bounded out of the car, hair flying, arms outstretched. She launched into her grandfather's open arms.

Elizabeth and Stephanie gathered the bags together and followed her.

"Stephie," Anita said, teary-eyed, taking her granddaughter in her arms.

After a quick round of hello-we-missed-you-how-was-your-flight? they all went inside.

The house smelled like Christmas; fresh-cut evergreen boughs draped the mantel and corkscrewed up the banisters; the cinnamony scent of newly baked pumpkin pies lingered in the air. On every table, vanilla-scented candles burned in cut crystal votive containers. There were artifacts of the girls' childhoods everywhere--clay Christmas trees that leaned like the Tower of Pisa, papier-mache snowmen covered in glitter and acrylic paint, egg cartons cut into nativity sets.

They spent the rest of the day talking and playing cards, wrapping presents and shaking the packages already under the tree. By midafternoon, Stephanie and Anita had disappeared into the kitchen to make homemade dressing and a bake-ahead vegetable casserole.

Elizabeth stayed in the living room, playing poker for toothpicks with Jamie and Daddy.

"So, missy," Daddy said, puffing on his pipe as he studied his cards. "How're things at Georgetown?"

Jamie shrugged. "Hard."

That surprised Elizabeth. Jamie never admitted that anything was difficult, not this child who wanted to climb Everest and publish haiku and swim in the Olympics.

"Jamie?" she said, frowning. "What's wrong at school?"

"Don't lapse into melodrama, Mom. It's just a tough quarter, that's all."

"How's Eric?"

"That is so over. I dumped him two weeks ago."

"Oh." Elizabeth felt oddly adrift suddenly, unconnected. Once she'd known every nuance in her daughters' lives; now boyfriends appeared and disappeared without warning. In the other room, the phone rang and was answered. "Are you seeing anyone else?"

"Hell's bells, Birdie. Who gives a rat's hindquarters about boys? How's the swimming, that's what matters. Are we gonna get seats to see you at the next Olympics?"

Jamie had vowed to win Olympic Gold when she was eleven years old. The day she'd won her first race at the Ray Ember Memorial Pool.

"Of course," she answered, smiling brightly.

But there was something wrong with that smile, something off. Before Elizabeth could say anything, Anita walked into the room, heels clacking on the floor. She was holding the cordless phone to her ample breast.

"Birdie, honey, it's Jack."

Elizabeth knew instantly: bad news.

Elizabeth hadn't slept well. All night, she'd tossed and turned on her side of the bed. Finally, at about five a.m., she gave up, got dressed, and went downstairs.

Jack hadn't been able to get away yesterday.

Of course he hadn't. Something important had come up. The video, honey, it's first rate, but blah, blah, blah. I'll be there tomorrow night. I promise.

Promises were a lot like impressions. The second one didn't count for much.

Elizabeth made herself a cup of tea and stood at the kitchen window, staring out at the falling snow. Then she wandered into the living room to make a fire.

There, sitting on the coffee table was a red cardboard ornament box.

Her father must have left it out for her last night.

She put down her tea and reached for the ornament that was on top. It was a lovely white angel, no bigger than her palm, made of shiny porcelain with silvery fabric wings. Her mother had given it to her on her fourth birthday; the last such present Elizabeth could recall.

Each year, she'd wrapped and unwrapped it with special care, and taken great pains to choose the perfect place for it on the tree. She hadn't taken it with her when she moved out because the angel belonged here, only here, in this house where her mama had lived.

"Hey, Mama," she said quietly, smiling down at the angel in her palm. Once, it had seemed so big. The most important part of the angel was the memory attached to it.

Can I hang up the angel now, Mommy? Can I?

Why, darlin' Birdie, you can do most anything. Here, let me lift you up...

She had so few memories of Mama; each one was valuable.

She hung the ornament from the second-highest branch, then plugged in the lights and stood back. The tree looked beautiful, sparkling with white lights and festooned with decades' worth of decoration. Everything from the pipe-cleaner star Jamie had made in kindergarten to the Lalique medallion Daddy had bought at an auction in Dallas. Golden bows adorned the branches.

Anita walked into the room. She wore a frothy pink negligee and Barbie-doll mules. "I had a heck of a hard time finding that box."

Elizabeth turned around. "You left this box out for me?"

"You picture your daddy rootin' around in the attic for a certain box of Christmas ornaments, do you?"

Elizabeth smiled in spite of herself. "I guess not."

Anita sat down on the sofa, curled her feet up underneath her. The puffy pink pom-poms on her slippers disappeared. "I'm sorry Jack couldn't get here yesterday."

Elizabeth turned back to the tree. She didn't want to talk about this. For all her pancake makeup and fiddle-dee-dee-don't-confuse-me airs, Anita sometimes saw things you'd rather she didn't. "He's busy with some big story."

"That's what you said."

There was something in the way she said it, a hesitation maybe, as if she didn't believe the excuse. "Yes, it is," Elizabeth answered curtly.

Anita sighed dramatically.

It was how they'd always communicated, in fits and starts. Ever since Daddy had brought his new wife home.

Elizabeth had been thirteen, a bad age anyway, and worse for her than most.

And Anita Bockner, the beautician from Lick Skillet, Alabama, was the last person she would have chosen to be her stepmother.

This is your new mama, Birdie, he'd announced one day, and that was that.

As if a mother were as replaceable as a battery.

Mama had never been mentioned again in this sprawling white house amid the tobacco and cornfields. No pictures of her graced the mantels or the tables, no stories of her life had ever been spun into a wrap that would warm her lonely daughter.

Anita had tried to mother Elizabeth, but she'd gone about it all wrong. They'd been oil and water from the beginning.

Elizabeth had hoped that time and distance would sand away the rough edges of their relationship, but that wasn't how it worked between them. They'd remained at odds for all these years. For Edward's sake, they'd learned at last to be polite. When things got too personal, one of them always changed the subject. It was Elizabeth's turn. "I hear you and Daddy are going to Costa Rica this spring."

"I'm a fool, that's for sure. I could choose a beach somewhere, with margaritas and pool boys, but noooo. I agree to visit a country that's famous for snakes and spiders."

"A lot of women dream of exotic vacations with husbands who love them."

"That's because most women can't remember why they fell in love with their husbands. Without that..." Anita let her voice trail off. "You have to work to remember the good things sometimes."

Elizabeth wasn't sure whether this conversation was idle chitchat or not. It didn't matter. Anita's comments were getting too close to the truth. It was bad enough that Elizabeth's marriage had gone stale. She wasn't about to add insult to injury by talking to her stepmother about it. "Did you notice the snow? The backyard looks beautiful," she said, scouting through the obviously empty box, looking for a not-there ornament.

"Ah, the weather. Always a good topic for us. Yes, Birdie, I saw the snow. Edward thought we'd all go down to the pond tonight."

"I think--"

The doorbell interrupted her. She glanced back at Anita. "Are you expecting anyone?"

Anita shrugged. "Benny, maybe? Sometimes when he has a hot date, he does his deliveries at the crack of dawn."

"Who in the sweet bejesus is that?" came Daddy's voice from upstairs.

Elizabeth went to the front door, opened it.

Jack stood there, looking rumpled and tired. His hair was an adolescent mess. Tiny pink lines crisscrossed his cheeks like an old road map. His blue eyes were narrowed by puffy skin. "Hey, baby," he said, giving her a lopsided grin. "I woke up the news director at midnight and gave him the tape. Then I flew all night. Forgive me?"

Elizabeth smiled up at him. "Just when I think I'm going to trade you in for a newer model, you do something like this."

She let him pull her into his arms, and when he leaned down to kiss her, she kissed him back.