She saw it from the corner of her eye, a glimmer so faint it might 
have been a trick of shadow. And then she was hit.
     She was turning toward him when the steel claw struck her 
square across the bridge of her nose, rending skin and shattering 
bone. Shock, disbelief - could this be happening to her? She kept 
turning even as her chin flew back and the gashes in her nose 
welled dark with blood. The rake slipped from her fingers and 
skittered across the floor. Her throat closed. She could not scream. 
     He swung a second time and the blunt end caught her temple, 
slamming her into the red tool chest and scattering nuts and bolts 
across the cement. As she raised a hand to shield her eyes, the 
third blow splintered two knuckles and crushed the second joint of 
her ring finger, dissolving her watch in a web of cracks. Cradling her 
battered head, she slid to her knees, then fell face-first onto the floor. 
She tried to crawl but her fingers lost their grip on the cool cement 
and the weapon plunged into the back of her skull. 
     With that blow her universe imploded. She had no thoughts, 
none at all. No pain. Pain belongs to survivors. Her last sight that 
brilliant Saturday in May was motes of dust playing tag in the band 
of light six inches from her nose, where the garage door stopped 
short of the concrete.
     Her killer gazed at her a long moment, then turned and left 
through the utility room door.