“What did you do?”

“My father called the cops on him, and threatened to beat the crap out of him. We never posed for the shots anyway, but plenty of girls do. Some of them don't even have to be drugged. They're too scared not to. The guys tell them they'll never work again, or God knows what, and they do it.”

Listening to her made Grace's blood run cold. She'd been falling in love with him. She'd trusted him. And what if he had taken photographs of her with her clothes off while she was passed out?

“Do you think he did something like that?” she asked in a terrified voice, remembering what Marjorie's friend from Detroit had said, and she hadn't believed, that Marcus had shot porno.

“Was there anyone else in the studio with you?” Marjorie asked worriedly.

“No, just the two of us. I'm sure of it. I think I was only out for a few minutes.”

“Long enough for him to get his pants off anyway,” Marjorie said, angry all over again. “No, I don't suppose he did. At worst, he got a couple of nude shots. And there's not much he can do with them without a release from you, if you're recognizable. He can't show your face in shots like that, without having you sign a release. The only use they'd be to him would be to blackmail you, and that's not worth much. What's he going to get out of you?” She smiled at her friend. “Two hundred dollars? Besides, it takes time and some cooperation to set up those pornos. They usually use a couple of girls, some guys, or at least one guy. Even if they drug you out, you've got to be alive enough to play the game. Sounds like you weren't a lot of fun after he hit you with his magic potion,” Marjorie laughed, and Grace smiled for the first time in hours, “sounds like he overestimated his victim, you must have gone over like a tree in the forest.”

They both laughed out loud, and it was a relief to laugh about it. It had been such an awful scene, and a brutal disappointment, but she couldn't help wondering if he hadn't drugged her or tried to force it, would she have been able to do it? Maybe she never would. But she certainly had no desire to try again, and certainly not with Marcus.

“I don't drink very much, and I've never done drugs. It just made me feel really sick.”

“So I noticed,” Marjorie smiled sympathetically, “you were the color of St. Patrick's Day when you got in.” And then she decided to make a suggestion. “I think the photographs are pretty much under control, or they will be when you ask him for the negatives. But maybe you'd like to check out something else. You want to make a quick trip to my doctor? She's real nice, and I'll take you, Grace. I think you ought to know if he did anything. They can tell. It's kind of embarrassing, but you ought to know. Maybe he just played around a little bit, or he could have done a lot worse while you were out cold. At least you should know it.”

“I think I'd remember … I remember being scared and telling him not to.”

“So does every rape victim in the world. It doesn't stop anyone if they don't want to stop. Wouldn't you feel better knowing for sure? And if he did rape you, you could press charges.” And then what? Start the nightmare all over again? She dreaded that, dreaded the attention, the stories in the news. Secretary accuses fashion photographer of rape … he says she wanted it, posed for nude photographs … the very thought of it made her skin crawl. But Marjorie was right. It would be better to know at least … and what if she got pregnant … it wasn't impossible, and the thought terrified her. She resisted at first and then finally she let Marjorie call the doctor for her, and at five o'clock they went to her office. Grace was a little more clearheaded by then, and the doctor confirmed that she'd been drugged with something.

“Nice guy,” she commented, and Grace flinched at the exam. It reminded her of the police exams after she killed her father. But the doctor looked surprised at what she saw. There was no evidence of recent intercourse, but there was a lot of old scarring. She suspected what it meant, and she was very gende when she asked Grace some questions. She reassured her that however great a cad the guy had been in drugging her, there was no sign of penetration or ejaculation.

“That's something at least.” So all she had to worry about was the pictures. And what Marjorie had said was reassuring. Even if he had taken pictures of her that were compromising, if she was recognizable, he couldn't use them without a release, and if she wasn't, who cared. And with any luck at all, he'd give back the pictures. It was still disgusting to think he'd taken them if he had, but she was beginning to think he had just staged the whole thing to punish her for balking at sleeping with him. But the drugs hadn't helped, they had only made her more frightened.

“Grace, have you ever been raped?” the doctor asked, but she already knew the answer when Grace nodded. “How old were you?”

“Thirteen … fourteen … fifteen … sixteen … seventeen …” The doctor wasn't sure what she meant at first.

“You were raped four times?” That was certainly unusual. Maybe she'd had psychological problems that had led her to put herself at risk repeatedly, but Grace shook her head with a woeful expression.

“No. I was raped pretty much every day for four years … by my father …”

There was a long moment of silence as the doctor absorbed it. “I'm sorry,” she said quietly. She saw cases like that sometimes and they broke her heart, particularly with young girls like Grace had been. “Did he get help? Did someone intervene?” Yes, she said to herself, I did. She had intervened. She had saved herself. No one else would have helped her.

“He died. That stopped it.” The doctor nodded.

“Have you ever had intercourse … uh … normally … with a man, since then?” Grace shook her head in answer.

“I think that's what happened today. I think maybe he got overanxious, and wanted to make sure I'd play, so he put something in my drink … we'd been going out for a month, and nothing had happened … I was … I wanted to be sure … I was scared … he said I … he said I got really scared when he tried …”

“I'm sure you did. Drugging you is not the answer. You need time, and therapy, and the right man. This one certainly doesn't sound like he is,” she said calmly.

“I figured that out,” Grace sighed, but she was relieved to know that he hadn't raped her. That would have been adding insult to injury.

The doctor offered her the name of a therapist, and Grace took it from her, but she didn't intend to call him. She didn't want to talk about her past anymore, her father, her four years of hell, and two years at Dwight. She had talked to Molly about all of it, and then Molly had died. She didn't want to open it up to anyone again. All she wanted was what she had. A few friends like Marjorie, and her roommates, her job, and the women and kids at St. Mary's to give her heart to. It was enough for her, even if no one else understood it.

She thanked the doctor and went home with Marjorie, and slept off the drugs. She went to bed at eight o'clock and woke up at two the next afternoon, much to Marjorie's amazement.

“What did he give you? An elephant tranquilizer?”

“Maybe.” Grace grinned. She felt better. It had been a horrible experience, but she'd been through worse. And fortunately, she was resilient. She went to work at St. Mary's that afternoon, and that night, she called Marcus. She half expected to get his machine, but she was relieved when he picked up the phone himself. He sounded surprised to hear her.

“Feeling better?” he asked sarcastically.

“That was a lousy thing to do,” she said simply. “I got really sick from whatever you gave me.”

“Sorry. All it was was a few Valiums and some magic dust for chrissake. I figured you needed some help loosening up.”

She wanted to ask him just how loose she'd gotten, but instead she said, “You didn't need to do that.”

“So I noticed. It was a wasted effort. Thanks a lot for stringing me along for the past five weeks. I really enjoyed it.”

“I wasn't stringing you along.” She sounded hurt. “It's hard for me. It's difficult to explain, but …”

“Don't bother, Grace. I get it. I don't know what your story is, but it obviously doesn't include guys, or at least not guys like me. I get it.”

“No, you don't,” she said, getting angry. How the hell could he know?

“Well, maybe I don't want to. Nobody needs this shit. I thought you'd knock my head off when I laid a hand on you.” She didn't remember that at all, but it was certainly possible. Obviously, she'd panicked. “What you need is a good shrink, not a boyfriend.”

“Thanks for the advice. And the other thing I need are the negatives of the pictures you took. I want them back on Monday.”

“Really now? And who says I took any pictures?”

“Let's not play that game,” she said quietly. “You took plenty of pictures while I was awake, and I heard the camera clicking and flashing while I was woozy. I want the negatives, Marcus.”

“I'll have to see if I can find them,” he said coolly, “I have an awful lot of stuff here.”

“Listen, I can call the police and say you raped me.”

“The hell I did. I don't think anyone's been in that concrete box of yours in years, if ever, so you're going to have a hell of a time selling that one. I didn't do shit to you except kiss you a few times and take my own clothes off. Big fucking deal, Miss Virginal-don't-lay-a-hand-on-me. You can't go to jail for taking your clothes off in your own apartment. You never even had your pants off.” She wasn't sure why, but she believed him, and she was relieved to hear it.

“And what about the pictures?”

“What about them? All they are is a bunch of pictures of you in a man's shirt with your eyes closed. Big fucking deal. You weren't naked for chrissake. You never even opened the shirt. And half the time you were snoring.”