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was there really much difference between wifebeaters and child abusers? She would have been a fool to expose a little boy to someone capable of so much violence. Glenn was rich, and his lawyer could probably get him visitation rights—maybe even full custody. She couldn’t let that happen. It wasn’t just herself she was trying to protect anymore.
    Dr. Swann was currently serving his third month of a life sentence at the Illinois Stateville Prison. He still insisted that he hadn’t killed his wife. Megan knew it was the truth. What she didn’t know was the real identity of the woman they’d assumed was Lisa Densmore Swann. The victim in the Garbage Bag Murder obviously had the same blood type as Mrs. Swann, the same complexion, and the same burn marks on her left rib cage.
    Megan couldn’t help wondering if Dr. Swann had branded one of his girlfriends the same way he’d burned his sad, sorry wife. Maybe he’d used one of his big, smelly Cuban cigars on that poor creature, too. And there was every possibility he’d murdered that anonymous woman.
    Not a week went by without Megan having to rationalize to herself why she’d left Glenn Swann to rot in prison. Her son, Josh, was still the best reason. She tried to imagine how the cruel and quick-to-anger Dr. Swann would have been around a perpetually crying, colicky baby. He wouldn’t have stood for it.
    “C’mon, sweetie,” she whispered, rocking him. “Please, Mama needs a break… .”
    He cried and kicked so hard, he was turning crimson.
    Megan tried singing to him: “This old man, he played one, he played knick-knack on my thumb, with a …” Or was it drum? Why would he play knick-knack on someone’s thumb? It didn’t make any sense. But she kept singing anyway, because the pauses Josh took between his screams became longer and longer. That’s it, that’s it, honey , she thought.
    The phone rang, startling her. Josh let out a loud wail. “Oh, shit,” she muttered, glancing at the VCR clock: 12:09 AM . It was probably a neighbor. Staring at the phone and the answering machine across the room, she bounced Josh in her arms and prayed they’d hang up. The answering machine clicked on.
    “This is 4-D,” the woman announced. “I know you’re there, because I can hear your baby crying. In fact, I’ve heard your baby crying every goddamn night for the last I-don’t-know-how-many-nights. I’m not sure what kind of mother you are, but …”
    With a sigh, Megan snatched up the phone. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I almost had him quieted down. He’s colicky. He—”
    “I’m trying to sleep for chrissakes,” the woman interrupted. “If you can’t shut that baby up, I’m calling the police—or child protective services. I mean it. This is ridiculous. It’s negligent. I’m so sick of listening to that noise. There must be some sort of law. I’m calling the police if this keeps up.”
    “I’m sorry!” Megan snapped. Her hand holding the receiver was shaking. Josh was crying in her other ear. “I’m doing everything I can—”
    “You know, when I get up for work in five and a half hours,” the woman cut in, “and you’re asleep, I’m going to start pounding on your wall and see how you like it.”
    Megan heard a click on the other end.
    Josh was still crying.
    She started crying, too. Weary and defeated, she sat down on the sofa again, placed Josh on his belly across her lap, and rubbed his back. She’d had some success with this position in the past—until about a week ago when it had only made him crankier. She tried humming to him, but kept choking on her tears.
    Was the woman in 4-D really ready to call the police on her? Megan had been in Seattle for almost a year now, and she still felt like a fugitive. The rare occasions she spotted a police car stopped in front of her building were always cause for panic—until she knew for sure the police hadn’t come for her. The idea of them knocking on her door absolutely terrified