Diane Vorsack clicked her tongue in a “tsk”. Set yourself to find it out, if you will—but if you do, never dare to call yourself my friend again. She thought of the suitcase, the seventy-seven dollars for a Greyhound ticket that had expired. Instead her point disengaged, dropped, and then the sword came up again and banged, flatbladed, onto Gosse’s wrist with such force that his own blade dropped from his grasp. He first met her when he had caught her smoking behind the Joliet LaudrO-Matic one cool overcast day in late August. "That I can't say. “Like what, Lucy?” She saw the panic threaten to overtake him. A black-garbed figure crept forward, noiselessly, towards Gosse’s back.
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