Except possibly when he had given her the book but that hug and kiss were joie de vivre and genuine gratitude. Equally the jigging up and down when he...told her that her mother had given permission for him to take her out; that again was exuberance and joy which had been infectious. He had wanted to hug and kiss her too. She was still too young but then her mother had not been anything other than reasonable about him visiting her. All the stuff about locking them in their rooms had been. Or, hell, I don't know. Maybe that's just me. Maybe I'm the same kind of psycho sicko myself, like all those ones I see in my visions. One day I'll snap, go on a little spree of my own ... naw, that thought's just too morbid.By the time I'm paying attention again, someone's pushing me to the ground. Large, firm hands. A man's hands. Familiar hands. Not to me, obviously, but to her. I know this routine. Usually its the umpteenth asshole boyfriend, but no - these aren't some dumbass teenager's. More

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