“I’ll drive you,” she says.

　

　Clare picks me up in the Fiat at the end of the driveway, out of sight of the house. She’s wearing sunglasses even though it’s a dim afternoon, and lipstick, and her hair is coiled at the back of her head. She looks a lot older than sixteen. She looks like she just walked out of Rear Window, though the resemblance would be more perfect if she was blond. We speed through the fall trees, but I don’t think either of us notices much color. A tape loop of what happened to Clare in that little cottage has begun to play repeatedly in my head.

　“How big is he?”

　Clare considers. “A couple inches taller than you. A lot heavier. Fifty pounds?”

　“Christ.”

　“I brought this.” Clare digs in her purse and produces a handgun.

　“Clare!”

　“It’s Daddy’s.”

　I think fast. “Clare, that’s a bad idea. I mean, I’m mad enough to actually use it, and that would be stupid. Ah, wait.” I take it from her, open the chamber, and remove the bullets and put them in her purse. “There. That’s better. Brilliant idea, Clare.” Clare looks at me, questioning. I stick the gun in my overcoat pocket. “Do you want me to do this anonymously, or do you want him to know it’s from you?”

　“I want to be there.”

　“Oh.”

　She pulls into a private lane and stops. “I want to take him somewhere and I want you to hurt him very badly and I want to watch. I want him scared shitless.”

　I sigh. “Clare, I don’t usually do this kind of thing. I usually fight in self-defense, for one thing.”

　“Please.” It comes out of her mouth absolutely flat.

　“Of course.” We continue down the drive, and stop in front of a large, new faux Colonial house. There are no cars visible. Van Halen emanates from an open second-floor window. We walk to the front door and I stand to the side while Clare rings the bell. After a moment the music abruptly stops and heavy footsteps clump down stairs. The door opens, and after a pause a deep voice says, “What? You come back for more?”