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COLD faucet. Finally she turned both faucets on full force and let the warmth gush over her.
    The roar was deafening, and the room was beginning to steam up.
    That's why she didn't hear the door open, or note the sound of footsteps. And at first, when the shower curtains parted, the steam obscured the face.
    Then she _did_ see it there--just a face, peering through the curtains, hanging in midair like a mask. A head-scarf concealed the hair and the glassy eyes stared inhumanly, but it wasn't a mask, it couldn't be. The skin had been powdered dead-white and two hectic spots of rouge centered on the cheekbones. It wasn't a mask. It was the face of a crazy old woman.
    Mary started to scream, and then the curtains parted further and a hand appeared, holding a butcher s knife. It was the knife that, a moment later, cut off her scream.
    And her head.
    FOUR
    The minute Norman got inside the office he started to tremble. It was the reaction, of course. Too much had happened, and too quickly. He couldn't bottle it up any longer.
    _Bottle_. That's what he needed--a drink. He'd lied to the girl, of course. It was true Mother wouldn't allow liquor in the house, but he _did_ drink. He kept a bottle down here, at the office. There were times when you had to drink, even if you knew you had no stomach for liquor, even if a few ounces were enough to make you dizzy, make you pass out. There were times when you _wanted_ to pass out.
    Norman remembered to pull down the venetian blinds and switch off the sign outside. There, that did it. Closed for the night. Nobody would notice the dim light of the desk lamp now that the blinds were down. Nobody could look in and see him opening the desk drawer and pulling out the bottle, his hands trembling like a baby's. _Baby needs his bottle_.
    He tilted the pint back and drank, closing his eyes as he did so. The whisky burned, and that was good. Let it burn away the bitterness. The warmth crept down his throat, exploded in his stomach. Maybe another drink would burn away the taste of fear.
    It had been a mistake to invite the girl up to the house. Norman knew that the moment he opened his mouth, but she was so pretty, and she had looked so tired and forlorn. He knew what it was to be tired and forlorn, with nobody to turn to, nobody who'd understand. All he meant to do, all he did do, was talk to her. Besides, it was _his_ house, wasn't it? Just as much as it was Mother's. She had no right to lay down the law that way.
    Still, it had been a mistake. Actually, he never would have dared, except that he'd been so angry with Mother. He'd wanted to defy her. That was bad.
    But he had done something far worse after he extended the invitation. He'd gone back to the house and told Mother he was having company. He'd marched right up to the bedroom and announced it, just as much as to say, "I dare you to do something about it!"
    It was the wrong thing to do. She was worked up enough already, and when he told her about the girl coming for supper she practically had hysterics. She was hysterical, the way she carried on, the things she said. "If you bring her here, I'll kill her! I'll kill the bitch!"
    _Bitch_. Mother didn't talk that way. But that's what she had said. She was sick, very sick. Maybe the girl had been right. Maybe Mother should be put away. It was getting so he couldn't handle her alone any more. Getting so he couldn't handle himself, either. What had Mother used to say about handling himself? It was a sin. You could burn in hell.
    The whisky burned. His third drink, but he needed it. He needed a lot of things. The girl was right about that, too. This was no way to live. He couldn't go on much longer.
    Just getting through the meal had been an ordeal. He'd been afraid Mother would make a scene. After he locked the door to her room and left her up there he kept wondering if she'd start screaming and pounding. But she had kept very quiet, almost too quiet, as though she was listening. Probably that's just