"See you tonight," Anna said, shoving Sam's chest away with her hands.

He smiled and let her slip through his arms, but then he saw the sunlight reflecting off her round dark face and long hair. He grabbed her waist, knowing he wouldn't be able to reach around her much longer. "One more kiss."

"I gotta work!" she said. But a grin snuck past her frown and she batted her eyes. "Buy me something pretty."

Something pretty? What could be prettier than the woman standing in front of him wearing that bright red dress? He smiled. He'd buy her the world if he could. She was carrying his child.

"Tonight," he said.

Her hidden grin erupted into a full-blown smile, and she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him.

He spent the better part of the day at the flea market, but he finally found Anna a music box like the one her momma used to have, right down to the blue flowers carved onto the lid. He smiled as he sat it on the seat and started his pickup. He wouldn't wait, he'd surprise her at work.

Her momma's box had been the only thing the bank didn't end up with after she died, and that was only because they never found out about it. But then some drunken white boys smashed it when they sacked Anna's trailer. Why'd they have to do a thing like that?

He waited on a car to pass, then pulled onto the dirt road and headed back into town.

No one had picked on Anna since they got hitched though. He'd made sure of it. And he'd make sure his child grew up fearing no one. It didn't matter how many white folk were out there hiding behind sheets and burning crosses. He'd protect his family.

He saw flashing lights ahead and slowed. Then a sheriff's deputy stepped onto the road and signaled for him to stop. The store where Anna worked was just around the corner. Sam's heart thumped.

"What's the commotion?" he asked.

"Stay in your truck," the deputy said.

Two white teenagers looked at him from the back of a police car. One of them winked. Then images of a trashed trailer and broken music box flashed through his head.

He gripped the steering wheel and clenched his teeth. When the deputy looked away, he eased up on the clutch and edged forward.

"Hey! Get back!" the deputy said.

Sam strained to see around the corner.

"Stop!" The deputy warned, reaching for his sidearm.

Sam pushed the clutch and his truck rumbled to a stop. But he could see now. The windows in Anna's store were busted out, and hate-filled words were painted on the side. Out front, a man stood amid the cars and the red and yellow lights. He seemed to be snapping pictures of the woods across the street. Sam looked closer. Then he saw a lone figure in a bright red dress swaying from a tree.

Stomach acid burned his throat and he vomited.

Without thinking, he voided on the music box. He grabbed it, fumbling. "Hush Little Baby" began playing. He tried to wipe it clean. It slipped, crashed to the floor, fell silent.

He stared, stunned.

The deputy called out from beside his truck and ordered him to get out. But the man's voice seemed distant and foreign. Sam sat up and looked at the youngsters in the back of the police car.

Then that white boy sneered.

A familiar perfume tickled Sam's nose, and he opened his eyes. "Where's Anna?"

His voice cracked, sounding high pitched and weak. A bright light made him squint.

"Anna Harper's dead," a man said. "You're in recovery."

"No," he whispered. His head began spinning, and he brought his hand to his temple as tears ran down his cheeks. His skin felt smooth and strange, and his fingers seemed small. Something was odd, but his thoughts returned to Anna. She'd never hurt nobody. He'd kill the boys who did this.

"Relax. Your memory will come back in a few minutes."

Memory? That's right. He'd already taken care of them boys. He'd rammed his truck into the car.

"Those boys dead?" he asked. Why did his voice sound so strange?

"Your name is Cynthia Mercer."

"You're nuts."

"It's true," the man said. "You are Cynthia Mercer."

That name sounded familiar, but he was Sam Harper.

What was that perfume?

It was his. He sat up, eyes wide. His husband bought it for him on their anniversary. Husband? He grabbed his chest and looked down. He had breasts. He looked at his hand, and saw a woman's white arm and manicured fingernails. They were painted red.

"You are juror number eight in the capital murder case against Mr. Sam Harper. You've just completed the defendant's profile."

"No, I am Sam Harper."

"Relax, it'll make sense in a moment."

Images flashed though her mind. She saw herself opening a summons from the courthouse. She saw her husband kissing her goodbye before she entered the jury chamber. She remembered lying on a table, and she remembered a mask being placed over her face. It was true. She was Cynthia Mercer, a fifty-year-old white woman.

But she couldn't shake the dream world. Inside, she was a young black man bent on revenge. Anger and sadness overwhelmed her. How could she live without Anna?

Wait. That made no sense. She needed to control her thoughts. No. She needed justice. But, she'd already delivered justice--or Sam had. She grinned. Sam had done his part. Now she'd do hers.

She looked at the man beside her. "When do I get to acquit?"

"Whoa, hang on there."

"When?" she demanded.

"You've still got to do the victim's profile."

She shook her head. "No way." She wasn't getting into the head of one of those monsters.

"I'm sorry," he said as he brought a mask over her face.