Buffy pushed open the back door of the lecture hall and her heart sank. With less than five minutes remaining until the beginning of class, the room was full unless she wanted to crawl over an entire row to the odd empty seat in the middle. She scanned the room and saw one empty seat at the end of a row. The drawback was that it was the first row. She went down the steps as quickly and quietly as she could, keeping her head down. At least the stairs were along the wall; she was not forced to traipse down the middle of the class. She had barely slid into the chair when the door at the back of the dais opened and Dr. Adjai swept in. The professor's hair was pinned back on the sides today but the top was proudly free, making her look like she wore a fluffy Mohawk. She dropped her notes at the lectern and reached into the cabinet to turn on the projector.

"All right," she said, drawing out the last word slightly. "Before we get into today's material, please pass your papers to this end of row, then bring them down and put them on the table in front of…" Dr. Adjai pointed toward the designated spot and saw Buffy seated there. The teacher frowned and hesitated for a fraction of a second, then made a 'come on' motion with her hand.

"Uh, Buffy. Buffy Summers."

"Place them on the table in front of Ms. Summers. Don't complain, you're carrying a few papers down a flight of stairs, not hauling stone blocks into position to build the Great Pyramid of Giza. Hustle, people, hustle." By the time Buffy had taken her own work out of her backpack the papers from her row were piling up. She added her paper to the top of the teetering stack and pulled her hands away, hoping the pile wouldn't slide off the table onto the floor as the professor approached. Dr. Adjai scooped up the assignments and quickly tapped them into an organized stack, tucked them under her arm, then, just before she turned back toward the podium, winked at Buffy, who blinked and gave her head a slight shake, like a cat just spritzed with water. Could a hangover produce hallucinations?

Dr. Adjai dropped the papers on the side table and clicked the first slide. "All right, ladies, gents, everyone, today, we're going to examine, or begin to examine, we won't get to it all today, but, what happens to the hero when he or she realizes that they are mortal and even, perhaps, gasp, fallible? Now, Enkidu is dead. Remember, the gods cursed him for his part in the death of Humbaba and particularly for his role in the killing and barbecuing of the Bull of Heaven. Also remember, that the source of Enkidu's fatal illness was his dream about the gods cursing him with illness. This is one of the most interesting parts of the story to me, personally, the idea that Enkidu would become deathly ill basically from the suggestion that the gods would make him sick.

"Anyway, Enkidu does not face death with dignity, he basically curses everyone who he's ever known, he curses the tree they cut down in Humbaba's forest, he curses Shamash, although he takes that back when she reminds him that he would still be running through the forest and eating grass if not for her, then Enkidu pours out his heart to Gilgamesh, and then he says that the worst part is that he will not die in battle but in shame, he will not die like a man… and then Enkidu dies."

The professor stepped down from the platform and walked across the front of the classroom. "Gilgamesh mourns for his friend for seven days, and it is at least implied that he thinks this process might please the gods and restore Enkidu. This would be a good time to point out that Gilgamesh might also feel a little guilt that his bro had to die because Gilgamesh's mommy protected him. Aaaannnyyyyyway, Gilgamesh mourns until, and I love this phrase, 'the worm fastened on him'. Basically, maggots on Enkidu convince Gilgamesh that death is real and it is final."

She stopped with her hands on her hips. "And so here is the question, and it is asked in the oldest story we have in the West, what happens when a hero cannot be heroic anymore or when the hero realizes that mortality awaits him as well?" Dr. Adjai practically hopped back onto the platform. "And that, people, is what we will be talking about today."

"Honey, how are you?" Joyce Summers looked up from her book.

Buffy shrugged, the plastic bag containing her clothes dangling from her left hand. "Fine."

"Thank you for calling last night. I appreciate it."

"Yeah." Buffy looked down at her makeshift outfit. "Probably shouldn't have crashed with somebody three inches taller than me."

"Well, did you have a good day?"

"It was… a day."

"How was the meeting last night? I mean, I assume it was productive, since you got so caught up."

Buffy's eyes narrowed as she studied her mother, looking for a tell. She could find none. "It was of the good. The new police chief was there."

"Oh?" Joyce sat up straighter. "What did he have to say?"

The former Slayer shrugged. "He asked everyone to report any assaults because the police are going to take them seriously."

"Well, I'm glad to hear that." Relief was audible in Joyce's voice as she stood. "Does that help the young lady who was… attacked?"

"She was raped, Mom, and it really doesn't." Buffy's mouth twisted as she looked out through the front window. "It was all too much… she left school."

"Oh, honey, I'm so sorry." Joyce put her book on the end table and approached her daughter, arms spread wide.

Buffy held up her hands, palm out. "Could we not, Mom? I don't think a hug is gonna make this okay."

Joyce stopped and dropped her hands, biting her lip. "I understand. What would you like for dinner?"

"Not sure that'll work either."

"Buffy, you can't-"

""I can't what, Mom? Can or can't what?" Buffy hugged herself tight. "When I was the Slayer, I knew the rules, even if they mostly sucked." She stopped, brought up short by the expression on her mother's face. "Uh, so, maybe pizza?"

"Sure." Joyce's reply was quick. "I'll order it."

"Thanks. I'm gonna go shower and put on some of my own clothes?" Buffy pointed a tentative thumb over her shoulder.

"I'll call you when it's ready."

Buffy paused on the stairs. "I think I'll be able to hear the pizza guy at the door, Mom." She offered a tiny crescent of a smile, then went up to her room.

As the water pounded down on her shoulders, Buffy watched it sluice the lather down the drain. She had scrubbed hard; her headache was almost a memory, but she felt greasy. Grinding the soap against her skin and feeling the blood rush to the surface was a good sensation.

"So Gilgamesh returns home to Uruk. Did he succeed? Yes? You."

"No, I mean, he went to find eternal life and he didn't."

"Yeah, he didn't even get close."

"C'mon, he failed. Una- Utna- The old guy gave him two chances and Gilgamesh whiffed on both of them."

Dr. Adjai nodded. "Good thoughts, good thoughts. Very well, let us stipulate that-" she turned to the whiteboard and wrote with a dry-erase marker "-Gilgamesh did not find eternal life, at least not in the way he expected." She added an emphatic period. "What did he find? Yes."

"Well, I guess you could say he found peace?"

"Interesting. How so?"

"Well, he doesn't find eternal life, but he… realizes that he can't get it?"

"Keep going. Continue that thought. Yes?"

"At the end of the poem, he, he walks around Uruk and realizes that it's a great city and that as long as it lasts, so will his name. So, I guess, maybe, he achieves a kind of immortality."

"Thank you. Excellent work, people. Yes, Gilgamesh is denied eternal life, he even experiences the humiliation of being unable to grasp it when it is offered to him, nice observation there, but he realizes that he can achieve a kind of de facto eternal life through his memory and so, in the end, the final transformation of Gilgamesh is not from man to immortal, but from selfish despot to wise ruler." Dr. Adjai leaned against the podium, ankles crossed. "And that seems like a decent lesson for us to learn in the modern world and a perfect place for us to end. Enjoy your weekend."

Buffy turned off the water and pulled back the shower curtain, then wiped the condensation from the mirror and stared at her reflection, studying it like the face of a stranger, looking for clues in the pale oval that rippled and distorted in front of her as droplets ran down. "Easy for you to say," she muttered.

"So, uh-"

"I'm going for a walk." Buffy gestured vaguely toward the front door.

"Oh, okay." Joyce's smile was weak as she shuffled her feet. ""Any place…?"

"No." Buffy shook her head. "I just… I just don't feel like being inside."

"I understand. Well, I'll be here… do you have your phone?"

"Yes." The former Slayer patted her jacket pocket. "Right here."

She turned left at the end of the sidewalk, then right on Oak Park. She realized where her feet were taking her and stopped, discombobulated, then turned right again. It had to be right, because left would take her toward CRD. She stuffed her hands in her pockets as the sun went down. In spite of being outside, she felt suffocated; at every corner, along every block, there was a memory: that's where the Master came after me… there's where Ms. French lived… that's where I killed the vamp before junior year… Chris's house is on that block… the Valley View is just over… The litany of the past rolled over her, threatened to smother her.

"What does a hero do when he can't be heroic?"

This was a bad idea. The chirping of the crickets and tree frogs hammered at her temples. The dull ache of the hangover headache resurfaced.

"What does a hero do when she can't be heroic?"

Every turning a reminder, every step an accusation. Every memory a double-edged blade.

"What does a hero do when she can't be heroic?"

That was the question, wasn't it?

"Hey, Casey."

Casey wiped her forehead with the back of one wrist and looked at Stuart. Sweat trickled into the corner of her eye and stung. She grimaced and blinked. "What is it?"

Stuart jerked a thumb over her shoulder. "There's somebody to see you out here."

She looked down at the fryer, then up at him. "We're closed, and I'm kinda busy cleaning this."

"She didn't wanna order anything." Stuart looked sleepy, which was nothing new; he always looked borderline narcoleptic. "She just asked to talk to you."

Casey sighed. "Okay, just… You take over, okay?" Stuart shrugged as she shoved past him. She came out into the prep area; her throat went dry as she scanned the food court. Ophelia sat at a table, huddled inside a navy-blue and crimson windbreaker. Casey grabbed a handful of napkins from the dispenser and wiped her hands, then grabbed another to blot her face and neck. She probably reeked of fryer oil. She almost ducked back into the kitchen, but Ophelia chose that moment to look up and make eye contact. Casey sighed; there was no possibility of a graceful exit now. She squared her shoulders and lifted the pass-through gate.

"Hey," Ophelia said.

"Uh, hi." Casey bit her lip. "What… what are you doing here?"

Ophelia looked up, her deep brown eyes an odd mixture of sad and defiant. "The mall's a public place, I'm part of the public, ergo I can come to the mall if I want."

Casey rubbed a hand over her forehead. "Yeah, but you didn't just come to the mall, I mean, you asked to talk to me." Her words echoed in the cavernous atrium of the food court: the mall's witching hour had struck, when the space that was meant to be filled with raucous humans became empty and eerie.

"Well, you said you worked here," Ophelia said.

"Uh, yeah, I didn't, I really didn't. I mean, I told you I work at the mall, but I never told you where I worked."

Ophelia shrugged and made an 'oh, well' face. "Sue me for wanting to talk to a friend."

Casey's hands flapped ineffectually. "But I can't talk now, Ophelia. I'm still on the clock. I have to close."

The younger girl looked down at the table. "Can I hang around until you're done?"

Casey opened her mouth with no idea of what she was going to say. She made a couple of small sounds before a voice cut through the air.

"Ophelia? Ophelia! There you are!"

Casey turned. A tall, lean woman who looked nothing like Ophelia strode across the food court, her platinum-blond hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. Casey glanced back in time to see Ophelia's eyes glaze over with what Casey recognized as 'Patina of Embarrassing Parent #7'. The energy changed as the woman arrived at the table; Casey felt it get simultaneously hotter and colder.

"What are you doing here?" the woman asked. Her face was all high cheekbones and forehead and sharp jawline.

"I'm hanging out at the mall. It's what kids do." Ophelia's face settled into a combined scowl/pout combination.

"Well, they don't do it without telling us where they're going." The woman turned to Casey. "I'm sorry. I'm Sybill Dandridge, Ophelia's-"

"Warden," Ophelia snapped.

Sybill Dandridge closed her eyes and sighed. "Ophelia's stepmother."

"You're my father's wife."

Sybill's lips compressed into a thin line. "That's what a stepmother is."

"Among other things." Ophelia's lower lip stuck out.

Casey bit her own lip and shuffled backward. "I gotta go close," she mumbled, her thumb pointing back over her shoulder.

"I'm sorry, has Ophelia caused a problem?" Sybill looked at her stepdaughter.

"No, no, I just, um…" Casey's thoughts ran out of steam.

The blond woman's gaze shifted to Casey. "It's difficult, getting settled in a new town." Eyes back to Ophelia. "Again, I must apologize. I know you're working. We won't keep you." She held out a hand. "Ophelia, let's go."

Ophelia hunched deeper into her jacket. "No."

"Ophelia!" Sybill's voice cracked like a whip. Cold sweat prickled along Casey's hairline. She winced as Sybill and Ophelia stared each other down. The barometric pressure started to rise.

"Hey, Casey, there's a problem in the freezer."

Casey's eyes shot toward the counter, overjoyed at seeing Stuard standing there, one inert hand raised above his head. She looked back at her teammate. "I'm sorry, but I gotta go, I mean, I gotta finish closing up and get home." Ophelia scrunched her shoulders, and Casey felt a sudden puzzling stab of sympathy for the other girl. "I'll, uh, I'll see you at school on Monday?"

Ophelia's gaze dropped to the floor. "Okay. I guess," she mumbled. Casey nodded and took a half-step toward the restaurant and safety. Sybill Dandridge looked at her stepdaughter, then at Casey.

"I'm sorry, if I could take just one more moment of your time." The tall blond licked her lips with a quick, darting movement of her tongue. "Ophelia and I are going to lunch and then shopping in the University District tomorrow. Perhaps you would like to come."

"Oh, I, uh…" Casey half-stumbled toward Hot Dog on a Stick, trying to think of a way to say 'no' when her eyes met Ophelia's. "Uh, I guess, okay?"

"Thank you." Sybill produced a pen and pad from her shoulder bag. "If you could give me your number, we will call in the morning and set the details." Casey mumbled her home phone, which Sybill transcribed. "Thank you again," she said and stepped closer as she snapped her bag closed. "I'm sorry if I seemed… edgy, but, well… this move happened very quickly and I've been worried about Ophelia… adjusting. I'm happy that she's making a friend."

"I am sitting right here." Ophelia pouted.

"Yes, yes, you are." Sybill held out a hand. "Come along, let's leave and let your friend…" She widened her eyes.

"Uh, Casey."

"Your friend Casey finish and go home." Sybill Dandridge pivoted and swept toward the food court exit. Ophelia trailed, head bowed and hands in pockets.

"What was all the family drama about?" Stuart slurred as Casey lifted the pass-through.

"How do you know it was family?" Casey asked as she headed toward the freezer.

"Only family acts like that."

"Yeah, I mean, I wouldn't know anything about that." Casey punched in the freezer code; Stuart could never remember it. "But now I have to figure out what to do about tomorrow."

She stood amid the ashes and knew she had lost; the battle had been pitched and costly. It was night, but blood-red light permeated everything, making every reflective surface look like an open wound. She felt the foe behind her, ready to deliver the coup de grace. Well, she would not go without a fight; as she turned to face the enemy, she raised her right hand-

And it was empty.

Buffy eyes shot open as she gasped for breath, her heart an icy lump in the middle of her chest. Enough sun seeped in through the branches of the trees to confirm that it was full morning, so she slung her body out of bed and padded downstairs.

"Did you have trouble sleeping?"

"Huh?" Buffy turned her head in the direction of her mother's question, her bleary eyes focusing a second later. "Why do you think that?"

Joyce made a face and sipped from her mug. "I remember what bad dreams sound like."

"Yeah." Buffy grabbed a box of cereal and shook flakes into a bowl. "I, uh, I guess I'm the princess with the metaphorical pea under her mental mattress."

"Is this a one-time thing?" Joyce watched her daughter pour milk over the breakfast of champions.

"It's not anything to lose sleep over." Buffy offered a wry smile through a mouthful of cereal.

"Ha ha." Joyce placed her cup on the counter. "Seriously, if you need to talk to anyone-"

"I've got some errands to run today," Buffy announced. "I'll try to be back for lunch." Joyce nodded and picked up her mug.

"Well," she said, "it's going to be a beautiful day. Enjoy it."

Buffy took a deep breath to steady her nerves as she waited for the elevator. The stairs would have been just as fast, but she wanted a moment to calm herself. She was dressed in black houndstooth slacks, a white shirt with a Barrymore collar, and a black vest. The bell dinged and she stepped into the car. One girl ambled down the third-floor hallway, chattering into her phone as she twisted her hair around an index finger. Buffy turned slightly sideways as they met and the plastic bag dangling from the former Slayer's hand bumped her leg. Buffy nodded an apology, but the girl didn't seem to notice. As she wended her way down the hall, still talking, Buffy took another breath in front of Bryn's door, then knocked. The door swung open, framing Bryn, who wore a sweatshirt over gym shorts.

"Come on in," the taller girl said, stepping back to allow entrance. Buffy held out the plastic bag.

"My mom washed them. Thanks."

Bryn tossed the bag onto the dresser. "You're welcome."

"Have you heard from Emily?"

"No." Bryn shook her head. "And I'm thinking I might not."

Buffy bit her lip. "I'm sorry. I know you guys were friends."

"It's not your fault." Bryn sat in her desk chair. "I mean, you pushed pretty hard, but I think those guys coming for her really, really freaked her out, and if you hadn't been there, who knows what would have happened? I think you did everything you could, but that was just too much for her. I don't think we could have changed things."

"It's not right that the guy who did this is getting away scot-free and Emily's out of school."

"Agreed. That's why we're trying to take action, to prevent the next one." Bryn flipped a hand in Buffy's direction. "Pretty snazzy outfit."

"Yeah." Buffy looked down at the floor, then back up at the other girl. "I've got some things to do today."

Buffy's heart pounded against her ribs as she pushed through the door of the police station. Like City Hall and the high school and several other public buildings, it had undergone extensive renovation, but to her it felt like putting a fresh coat of paint over rotting wood. The corruption could be concealed for a while, but it was still there, and would ooze to the surface, guaranteed. She walked up to the front counter, licked her lips, and said, "I'd like to make a report."

The officer manning the entry was glued to the computer, playing solitaire if the citizenry was fortunate. He turned toward her, heaving a vast, heavy sigh. "What kind of report?"

"I, uh, I want to report a crime."

"Uh-huh." He scratched his neck. "So, what kinda crime?"

"An assault." She placed a hand on the countertop. "A… a sexual assault."

"Uh-huh, so, you probably wanna talk to a detective?"

Buffy nodded enthusiastically. "Yes. Yes, that's what I want to do, talk to a detective."

"Okay." The guy nodded toward a bench underneath a large map of Sunnydale. "You go wait over there and I'll call somebody." He made a shooing motion; Buffy felt her blood pressure spike, but she gave a tight-lipped nod, went to the bench, and sat down, hands in her lap, trying to give off cooperative vibes. The vibes curdled after sitting for fifteen minutes. She stood up to approach the desk when a steel door to her left opened and a guy in a graying brush cut and a sport coat that had fit fifteen pounds ago set eyes on her.

"You the one wants to make a statement?" he asked.

Buffy nodded. "That's me, I mean, I do… want to make a report, yes."

He nodded. "Okay, come with me." He held the door open and motioned with his head. Buffy slipped past him, hearing his jaw pop and smelling spearmint from the gum he chewed. He pointed down the hall "Last door on the left." Buffy stopped at the designated portal; the detective swiped a key card, then held the door again. Buffy went into a room with dark gray carpet, light blue walls hung with generic art on three walls and a mirror on the fourth. A table with four chairs occupied the middle of the room; a rolling cart with a coffee machine was tucked away in one corner next to a video camera mounted on a tripod.

"Wow," Buffy said. "Homey."

The detective gave her a squinty-eyed look. "You a wise guy?"

Buffy bit back a retort. "Me? No, not wise, definitely not a guy." He nodded, then held up a thick index finger.

"Wait here." The door closed behind him and she heard the click of a lock snapping into place. She wandered around the room, looking at the prints and examining her reflection in the mirror. She assumed someone was watching from the other side, so she stuck out her tongue. She was on her third circuit of the room when the door opened, and the detective stepped inside, followed by a woman with honey-colored skin and black hair pulled back in a ponytail. The woman was just above medium height and slender, although the bulky belt and black pants of the Sunnydale PD uniform did her no favors.

"Have a seat, please?" The detective motioned toward the table. As Buffy took one of the indicated chairs, the female officer checked the video camera and pressed a button. A red light glowed just beneath the lens as she took the seat beside the detective.

"Okay," the detective said, taking out a notebook and uncapping a pen, "interview by Detective Ross Grimsby with Officer Zuleika Wilson as witness. Interview subject is…" He looked at Buffy and extended an open palm.

She cleared her throat. "Buffy. Buffy Summers."

"Buffy Summers." Grimsby sounded pre-bored. "Address?"

"1630 Revello Drive, Sunnydale."

"-30 Revello Drive." He made an emphatic period, then clicked his pen closed. "Now, Miss Summers, you wish to file a criminal complaint, correct?" The pen clicked again, ready to write.

"Yes, for about the fifteenth time." Buffy tried to lean back, but, although it was nicely padded and painted a glossy black, it was still a straight-backed chair.

"You told the front desk you wished to report a sexual assault."

"Yes, yes, I do."

Grimsby nodded and blew out a cloud of spearmint. "Okay, go ahead."

"I was at a party at the University on Friday night. As I was leaving the party, a guy offered to help me to my car and then… touched me inappropriately."

Grimsby wrote in his notebook. "What was the nature of this party?"

"It was… a party. Just a party." Buffy looked from the detective to Officer Wilson, whose face betrayed nothing.

"Where was this party located?"

"The, the Cage."

Officer Wilson placed a hand on Grimsby's arm. "It's in the basement of the Union." He leaned over and muttered something in her ear, his voice too low for Buffy to make out the words. Wilson nodded, stood, and left the room. Grimsby placed his pen and notebook on the table and sat, his palms on his thighs and his eyes on the former Slayer. Buffy stared back; it crossed her mind that he looked like an android whose battery had run down. Minutes passed, then Officer Wilson reappeared and placed a sheaf of papers on the table. Grimsby looked through the document, then placed it on the table.

"So," he said. "Was this party sponsored by any campus organization?"

"I thought it was, but it turned out to be a party thrown by some guys."

"Uh-huh. And what time did you leave the party?"

"Uh, I'm not super sure, but I think… ten-thirty, maybe?"

Grimsby tapped his pen on the table. "Any particular activity at this party?"

Buffy's eyebrows drew together. "Activity such as?"

Grimsby rested the fingertips of his left hand on the stack of paper. "Last Friday night, we had a fair number of stops for suspected DUI. There's also a couple of public urination complaints in here."

"Well, I definitely wasn't one of those." Buffy shook her head, eyes wide. Officer Wilson seemed to be struggling to restrain a cough.

"Based on times and locations, could I, as an officer of the law, assume that there was a fair amount of drinking going on at this party?"

"Wow, I see how you made detective." Buffy's eyes rolled. "You got me. Yes, there was drinking at a college party."

"Did any of that drinking involve you, Miss Summers?"

"It might have." She chewed her lip; her head hurt. "In my defense, the punch was spiked. I didn't know."

"So you had one drink?"

"Uh, maybe not."

"Uh-huh. How many drinks did you have, Miss Summers?"

"What? I mean, how is that-"

Grimsby shrugged. "One, two, ten?"

Buffy shook her head. "It was, like, four, I think."

"Uh-huh. Are you in the habit of consuming alcohol, Miss Summers?"

Buffy's eyes narrowed. "I don't see-"

"Well, is four drinks a lot for you?" Grimsby .

"Yeah, I mean, the only other time I've drunk anything was a beer last spring."

Grimsby paused his writing and looked at her. "Really. And you are aware that the legal drinking age in California is 21, not 18?"

"No, I didn't, but since I don't drink-"

"But you did on Friday night."

"Again, slowly, I didn't know the punch was spiked."

"So, you couldn't detect anything? The taste wasn't… different?"

"Well, yes, it was…"

"Did you notice the difference only after four drinks?"

"Well, when you sum it up like that-" Buffy dug her fingers into her palms. "The important thing is that this asshole groped me."

Grimsby nodded, his square head tilting on his thick neck. "What about since then?

"What?"

"Since the party, have you consumed any alcoholic beverage?"

Buffy opened her mouth and froze. "I don't see how that's important."

"Miss Summers, you said did not drink before this party, other than-" Grimsby raised his eyebrows "-a beer last spring. Okay." He turned pages in his notebook. "So, let me go over this, make sure I got it right. You correct me if I'm wrong, okay? You went to a party, had more than one drink, left early, this guy-"

"Patrick." Buffy nodded. "His name is Patrick Fisher."

"-yeah." Grimsby nodded. "So, this guy gives you his full name, then assaults you."

Buffy shook her head, impatient. "No, he just told me his name was Patrick. I found his last name in the newspaper."

"Uh-huh. He assaults you, you look him up in the paper and find out his full name and now you come in to file a report a week later?" Grimsby cleared his throat.

"Yes." Buffy felt sweat gathering in her pits and at the small of her back. Any second it was going to trickle out of her hairline and down her forehead.

"Can I ask why you waited so long?"

"I didn't realize there was some sort of time limit for reporting a crime." She hated her voice; it sounded whiney even to her own ears.

"There isn't, it's just that memories fade, or something else happens that causes people to reconsider their own experience, you know." Grimsby waved a hand over his notebook.

Buffy cocked her head the tiniest bit. "No, I don't know. What do you mean?"

"Nothing. It's just, it's best to get on a trail while it's fresh." The detective cleared his throat and adjusted his jacket. "So, this guy assaults you… what was the nature of the attack?"

"Nature?"

"Yes, did he restrain you, strike you, forcibly detain you, that sort of thing." Grimsby glanced at his fellow officer. "If you're uncomfortable with any of this, I can leave the room and let Officer Wilson handle this part of the statement."

"No." Buffy shook her head. "No. I was, I was sitting on a bench in the…" She made a circular motion with her index finger.

"The foyer?" Zuleika Wilson prompted.

"Yeah, thanks, the foyer. I was sitting on the bench because I was little buzzed, and he, Patrick, came up and offered to walk me to my car." She paused, but Grimsby said nothing, just doodled in his notebook.. "So, we walk outside, and he puts his arm around me-"

"Did you need assistance?" Officer Wilson glanced at Grimsby, who nodded for her to continue. "Were you having difficulty walking?"

"No. I wasn't… I didn't leave the party because I was drunk, like, I really didn't even think about that. I was walking fine."

The officers exchanged looks; Grimsby crossed his arms as Zuleika leaned forward. "So, what happened next?"

"He put his arm around me and I kinda pulled away, then he pulled me in close and he…" Buffy gestured toward her chest.

"He fondled your breast?"

Officer Wilson low-keyed the statement, but Buffy still felt her face flush. "Yes."

"You're sure?"

Buffy glared at Grimsby and for a fleeting moment longed for the feel of a stake in her hand. "Yeah. Pretty sure."

Grimsby gave her a dead-eyed stare and sucked on an incisor. "You have to be, in cases like this." He hunched his shoulders and lowered his pen to the paper. "What happened after that?"

"I knocked him on his ass." It came out a little faster and hotter than she intended.

"You?" The detective looked up. "You, uh-"

"You defended yourself?"

"Yes, yes, that's what I did." Buffy gave Officer Wilson a small nod.

"Okay, what then?" Grimsby clicked his pen.

Buffy rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. "Uh, he, um, was upset? And I told him if he tried to get up I was going to kick him."

This time Officer Wilson lost her battle against the cough. The detective put down his pen and leaned back, hands on his thighs. "You did? And he listened?"

Buffy gave a slow shrug. "I'm very persuasive."

"Uh-huh. So, after that…?"

"I got in my car and drove home." Buffy held up a hand. "Wait. I threw up, then I drove home. I threw up in the parking lot, not in my car."

"Well, there's a clue," Grimsby mumbled. "All right, Miss Summers, if you could wait here for a minute, we'll be right back." He got up and lumbered out of the room, jerking his head toward Officer Wilson, who gave Buffy a sympathetic look as she followed the detective. Buffy stared at the walls, alternating between the job-lot purchased landscapes. When she looked at the mirror, she fought the urge to stick out her tongue a second time. Her skin was starting to crawl from boredom when the door opened, and Grimsby and Wilson came in.

"Here," the detective said, dropping a thin stack of papers on the table, "is a copy of your statement. Would you mind reading it over and signing it?"

Buffy glanced at him, suspicion on her face, then leaned forward and scanned the document. Grimsby offered his pen. Buffy scrawled her name on the line at the bottom of the page and stood up. The detective picked up her statement. "Thank you for your assistance. We'll keep you informed about the investigation's progress. Officer Wilson will show you out."

Buffy watched him leave the interrogation room, then turned to the patrol officer. "So, you're the brush-off?"

Zuleika Wilson made a 'come on' gesture. "I'll walk you to your car." Buffy brushed past her and walked down the hall, the officer's footsteps echoing off the tile in a split-second repeat of the former Slayer's footfalls. The public area was a little more crowded than when she had arrived, but the same officer still stared at his computer screen. Buffy pushed through the door and paused to put on her sunglasses.

"Are you okay?"

Buffy turned. Officer Wilson stood easy, thumbs hooked into her belt. "Oh," the erstwhile Slayer said, "I'm peachy."

Zuleika nodded slowly. "Is there anything you would like to ask me?"

Buffy mimed deep thought, then snapped her fingers. "Is your last name really Wilson?"

"Yup. Mixed marriage. My maiden name was Erickson." The officer's face was bland.

"Uh of the huh." Buffy pursed her lips.

"OK, busted." Zuleika grinned. It was like the sun breaking through a cloud. "Mom's maiden name was Manjarekar." Her expression sobered. "Listen, I know this is hard. It feels like you're not being taken seriously-"

"Because I'm not."

Zuleika nodded. "Yeah, I know, Grim doesn't have the best people skills, but I think he'll investigate the best he can."

"That last part sounded hinky." Buffy's eyes narrowed behind her polarized lenses.

The officer spread her hands. "I won't lie to you, most of our male officers don't take stories like yours seriously and, honestly, no one's ever going to mistake Grim for Sherlock Holmes-"

Buffy's lips pursed. "I'd settle for Jessica Fletcher."

Zuleika's posture shifted. "Well, he's not Inspector Clouseau, either."

Buffy cocked a hip and crossed her arms. "He didn't seem super-enthused in there."

"You watch too much TV. Every case isn't a crusade." Zuleika reached into the breast pocket of her uniform shirt. "Here." She handed over a business card. "It took guts to come in. I promise you that we'll do right by you. If you have any questions, call that number. It'll get you in touch with me."

Buffy fingered the card. "Well, that certainly deflects my 'don't call us, we'll call you' comeback."

Zuleika touched two fingers of her right hand to eyebrow. "We will do this. Keep in touch." She turned lightly on her toes and went back into the police station. Buffy flicked the business card with her fingers and set her jaw.

"Hell of a way to spend a Saturday."