There was a stunned silence in the room when he was through, and then a sudden babble of voices, exclamations, and congratulations to Gabbie. They were sincerely pleased for her, and didn't begrudge her her good fortune. She felt like an heiress, and as she glanced at Steve, he was smiling at her. It was easy to see he was happy for her, and she was relieved to see that he didn't look angry or jealous. No one did. They all thought she deserved it.

“I suppose you'll be leaving us now,” Mrs. Boslicki said sadly. “You can buy your own brownstone,” she said, smiling through tears, as Gabbie hugged her.

“Don't be silly, I'm not going anywhere.” She still couldn't believe it, and they were all amazed at the genteel fortune quietly amassed by the professor. No one had ever suspected that he had anything more than his social security checks, but it did explain his frequent generosity in taking Gabbie to dinner. The will explained a lot of things, mostly how he felt about her, and she was only sorry she couldn't thank him. The only thanks he had wanted from her was that she pursue her writing career, and she had every intention of doing that now, in his honor, as much as for her own pleasure.

“Well, princess, what now? A limousine or a vacation in Honolulu?” Steve was teasing her, as he put an arm around her. But even she had to admit it certainly took the edge off her problems. It changed a lot of things, and she was only sorry she couldn't share the news with Mother Gregoria, and the Sisters at St. Matthew's. Perhaps there was indeed a blessing in everything. Had they not closed the door on her, this would never have happened. It had been an extraordinary year for her, and it was hard to believe it had only been ten months since she left the convent. The professor had written his will in June, almost as though he had had a premonition that his time was coming. But with Mrs. Rosenstein getting ill that spring, and his own health growing more delicate, he had wanted to make his wishes known, which proved to be providential.

They all went out to dinner that night, and Gabriella treated them officially, although Mrs. Boslicki had to advance her the money. And when they got back, Gabbie went quietly to the professor's room, and looked over the library she had inherited. There were some beautiful books, including the ones she had given him the previous Christmas. She sat at the desk after that, and looked at his files, and then she opened one of the drawers to see if there were more papers in it, and she noticed a neat stack of letters marked “Steve Porter.” She was surprised to see them there, and took them out. They were copies of all the correspondence he had shown Steve the week before. The letters to Stanford and Yale, and their responses, along with a series of letters from assorted departments of corrections, and as she looked at them, and read them carefully, one by one, her eyes widened in horror. She discovered in them a man she had never known, a number of them, a “monster,” as the Professor had put it to him. She read the list of his various aliases, his crimes, his sentences, the time he had spent in various jails and prisons, mostly for forgery and extortion. He had bilked money from women in several states and was apparently known for the games he played, having affairs with them and then using them in every way he could until he exhausted their supply of money. He occasionally sold small quantities of drugs as well. He did whatever he had to do to extort money from everyone. And she noted in a letter based on a social worker's interview with him in jail that he had never finished high school. So much for Stanford and Yale. But the implications for her were far more terrifying than the lack of a diploma. She suddenly knew what had been happening to her for the past seven months, and what he'd been doing. He had used her, mercilessly, cruelly, he didn't give a damn about her, didn't care who she was. There had been no accident, no fiancée, his parents had died when he was a child, and he had grown up in foster homes and state institutions. There was no sick mother in Des Moines, his father had not died the previous year. Every single thing he'd told her to evoke her sympathy and get closer to her had been a lie. All of it. Even the name he used was not his true one. The Steve Porter she knew and thought she loved was entirely a fabrication.

It was worse than anything that had ever happened to her so far, worse even than losing Joe. That had been heartbreaking, but it was real and she knew he loved her. This man was a con artist and a criminal. He had lied to her, used her, stolen from her, and taken advantage of her in every way he could. She suddenly felt sick and dirty. It made her feel ill thinking of him now and the things he'd done to her, the intimacies they'd shared. She felt like a prostitute, except he was the prostitute. He was worse than that.

She sat for a long time with the letters in her hand, and then put them back in the drawer and locked it. She didn't know what to say to him, how to escape him. And then with a sense of terror, she suddenly wondered if the professor had confronted him, if Steve knew what the professor had discovered about him, and had somehow hurt him. The thought made her tremble. She felt sick as she thought of it, but she suddenly knew that something terrible had happened.

She left the room quietly and went back to her own room. She was sitting on the bed, trying to sort out her tangled thoughts about all of it as Steve came into the room and saw her.

“You okay?” She looked strange to him, but she'd had quite a day. It was a real bonus he had never expected. He had thought the old fool was dead broke, and all he had to go on was Gabriella's salary and meager savings. This was a real windfall, and he didn't doubt for a minute that he had her in his pocket.

“I have a terrible headache,” she said, sounding groggy. She was stunned by the realization of her discoveries in the professor's desk, and she turned to look at Steve now as though he were a stranger. He was, nothing of what she knew of him existed.

“Well, sweetheart,” he said glibly. He was in high spirits. “You can buy a hell of a lot of aspirin with six hundred thousand dollars. What do you say we go out to dinner to celebrate tomorrow night? And then maybe go away somewhere… Paris… Rome… Atlantic City…” The possibilities were endless. He had some real work to do on her now, and Europe would be the perfect place to do it.

“I can't think about that now, Steve. Besides, I can't just leave Ian on the spur of the moment. And the professor wanted me to use the money so I can write. I can't just throw it around, that wouldn't be fair to him.” She didn't even know why she was wasting her breath on him, but she had to say something. She had to buy time until she could figure out what she was doing. But just looking at him now was painful, particularly if in some way he had been responsible for the professor's “accident,” or his death, as she now suspected.

“Let me tell you something,” he said, looking amused by her pangs of conscience, “the professor is never going to know what you do with it. It's yours now.” She nodded, unable to think of anything to say to him. Even now, his true colors were showing.

They slept in her room, as usual, that night. He used his as an office and a closet. And she told him again how ill she felt. She knew that if he tried to touch her, she would hit him. His was an abuse of a kind she had never known, but it was nonetheless clear to her now. It was no prettier than what her mother had done to her, it wasn't physical, but in its own way, it was just as ugly.

And in the morning, she pretended to go to work, just to get away from him, but she called Ian from a pay phone down the street, and told him she was ill. She went to the park then, and sat on a bench, trying to figure out what she was doing.

She knew that Steve was going out that day, to meet friends for lunch, and that morning he had talked to her again about going to Europe, but she had pretended to be too busy getting dressed to answer, and he had no reason to suspect anything.

Mrs. Boslicki was going out that day too, she said she had to buy a new bed, one of the mattresses had been burned by one of her last boarders. And Mrs. Rosenstein had an appointment with her doctor. And the others all worked. She knew that if she waited till lunchtime, she could be alone in the house to go through the professor's room. She wanted to see if there were any more incriminating documents about Steve, and then she wanted to talk to the lawyer, to see what he thought she should do. But the one thing she knew was that she wanted Steve out of her life as soon as possible. She never wanted to spend another night with him, or have him touch her again. She wanted to ask Mrs. Boslicki to evict him. He hadn't paid his rent in months, and she knew that if she didn't pay it for him, he couldn't. But even that would take time, weeks at least. And she didn't know how to handle the situation in the meantime. There was no one for her to talk to.

She went back to the house at noon, and knew she had waited long enough. The house was silent when she let herself in. Everyone was gone, as she hurried up the stairs to the professor's room, and left the door wide open. There was no one there to see what she was doing. She unlocked the desk, took out the stack of letters again, and they were even more horrifying this time when she read them. She pored over every detail, the aliases, the crimes, the list of women he had used all over the country. Considering his age, he had been very busy. And she was still engrossed in reading when she suddenly heard a sound behind her. She turned and saw Steve, smiling at her from the doorway.

“Counting your money so soon, Gabbie? Or hoping to find more? Now don't be greedy, baby.” There was a strange smile on his face, and she jumped when she saw him. Her face went instantly pale, and she didn't smile at him. She just couldn't.

“I just wanted to go through some of his things. Ian gave me a long lunch break.” Steve said nothing as he sauntered slowly toward her. She wondered if he had canceled his lunch, or if that had been a lie too, or if this was all a trap, and he knew exactly what she'd been reading. Maybe he knew all along. She didn't know what to think now.

“Interesting reading, isn't it?” He pointed at the neat stack of letters, and she knew from the look in his eyes he'd seen them before. He didn't care what she knew now. He was in the money.

“I don't know what you mean,” she said, sounding vague, turning over one of the letters to conceal the others.

“Yes, you do. Did he manage to tell you before he died? Or did you just find them?” He had returned to the house to look for any copies of the letters that might still be around. The old bastard was just the kind of person who would protect himself.

“What is it you think I found?” She was playing cat and mouse with him, and they both knew it.

“My little history. The professor did some very thorough research. There's more, of course, but I think he managed to hit all the high spots.” He sounded proud of it, and he looked so sure of himself, it made her feel sick as she watched him. Who was this man? He was nothing to her. A total stranger. “We had a conversation about it the day he… uh… fell.” He said it with careful emphasis and her eyes blazed as she stood up to face him.

“You did it, didn't you? You bastard.” She had never called anyone that before, but he deserved it. “Did you hit him? Or just push him? What did you do to him, Steve?” She wanted to know now.

“Absolutely nothing. He made it easy for me. The old fool got in such a state he did most of it to himself. I just helped a little. He was very worried about you. But I can see why now. I didn't realize you were his heiress, That was a lucky break, wasn't it? For both of us. Or did you know, and was all that surprise in front of the others just bullshit?”

“Of course I didn't know. How could I?”

“Maybe he told you.”

“I'm going to tell the others what you did,” she said boldly, convinced as she always was that justice could always prevail over evil. All you had to do was stand your ground and know the truth, and the devil would flee before you. But not this one. And not her mother before him either. “And after I tell them, we're going to call the police. You'd better get the hell out of town, and fast, or you'll be very sorry.” She was shaking with rage as she faced him. One way or the other, even indirectly, she knew he had killed the professor.

“I don't think so, Gabbie.” He looked at her calmly. “I don't think we're going to be telling anyone anything. Or at least you won't. I might. I could tell the police that you knew exactly what he was leaving you, that you talked to me about it many times and wanted me to kill him. I refused, of course, and talked you out of it. You even offered me money if I'd do it. Half the take. Three hundred thousand dollars. Pretty impressive. And all I did was talk to him, and he had a stroke. You can't go to jail for that, but you can for conspiring to have someone killed, someone you stood to inherit a great deal from. In fact, if I offer state's evidence, and turn you in, they'll offer me protection, and you about ten to fifteen in jail. How does that sound?” It sounded horrifying and she couldn't believe what she was hearing. She was momentarily stunned into silence. “In fact, I promise you that's what I'll do, unless you agree to give me five hundred thousand dollars right now. This is the Big Time, Gabbie. It's a small price to pay for your freedom. Think about it. Ten to fifteen. And jail is a pretty ugly place for a kid like you. I know. I've been there.”