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“Eileen.”

Ah, a return signal. She felt like a radio astronomer.

Reba was an excellent mimic. She could have reproduced Eileen’s speech with startling fidelity, but she was too wise to mimic anyone’s speech for Dolarhyde. She quoted Eileen as though she read from a transcript.

“‘He’s not a bad-looking guy. Honest to God I’ve gone out with lots of guys didn’t look that good. I went out with a hockey player one time—played for the Blues?—had a little dip in his lip where his gum shrank back from his bridge? They all have that, hockey players. It’s kind of, you know, macho, I think. Mr. D.’s got the nicest skin, and what I wouldn’t give for his hair.’ Satisfied? Oh, and she asked me if you’re as strong as you look.”

“And?”

“I said I didn’t know.” She drained her glass and got up. “Where the hell are you anyway, D.?” She knew when he moved between her and a stereo speaker. “Aha. Here you are. Do you want to know what I think about it?”

She found his mouth with her fingers and kissed it, lightly pressing his lips against his clenched teeth. She registered instantly that it was shyness and not distaste that held him rigid.

He was astonished.

“Now, would you show me where the bathroom is?”

She took his arm and went with him down the hall.

“I can find my own way back.”

In the bathroom she patted her hair and ran her fingers along the top of the basin, hunting toothpaste or mouthwash. She tried to find the door of the medicine cabinet and found there was no door, only hinges and exposed shelves. She touched the objects on them carefully, leery of a razor, until she found a bottle. She took off the cap, smelled to verify mouthwash, and swished some around.

When she returned to the parlor, she heard a familiar sound—the whir of a projector rewinding.

“I have to do a little homework,” Dolarhyde said, handing her a fresh martini.

“Sure,” she said. She didn’t know how to take it. “If I’m keeping you from working, I’ll go. Will a cab come up here?”

“No. I want you to be here. I do. It’s just some film I need to check. It won’t take long.”

He started to take her to the big chair. She knew where the couch was. She went to it instead.

“Does it have a soundtrack?”

“No.”

“May I keep the music?”

“Um-hmmm.”

She felt his attention. He wanted her to stay, he was just frightened. He shouldn’t be. All right. She sat down.

The martini was wonderfully cold and crisp.

He sat on the other end of the couch, his weight clinking the ice in her glass. The projector was still rewinding.

“I think I’ll stretch out for a few minutes if you don’t mind,” she said. “No, don’t move, I have plenty of room. Wake me up if I drop off, okay?”

She lay on the couch, holding the glass on her stomach; the tips of her hair just touched his hand beside his thigh.

He flicked the remote switch and the film began.

Dolarhyde had wanted to watch his Leeds film or his Jacobi film with this woman in the room. He wanted to look back and forth from the screen to Reba. He knew she would never survive that. The women saw her getting into his van. Don’t even think about that. The women saw her getting into his van.

He would watch his film of the Shermans, the people he would visit next. He would see the promise of relief to come, and do it in Reba’s presence, looking at her all he liked.

On the screen, The New House spelled in pennies on a shirt cardboard. A long shot of Mrs. Sherman and the children. Fun in the pool. Mrs. Sherman holds to the ladder and looks up at the camera, bosom swelling shining wet above her suit, pale legs scissoring.