Ashley took the quarter-finals in straight sets. Most said she played the finest tennis in her career on that hazy September afternoon. Ashley knew she wasn’t playing tennis. She was waging war. She’d gone onto the court full of vengeance and fury, almost pummelling her opponent with the ball. Her swing was vicious, her aim deadly. The violence showed in her face, in the grim set of her mouth, in the eyes that were nearly black with emotion. It wasn’t the winning or losing that mattered to her, but the release of the physical aspect of the temper that she’d barely controlled the night before. When she struck, she struck brutally, always moving. The motion itself was a threat. She’d often been called merciless, but the description had never been truer. As if scenting blood, she hounded her opponent, then ground her mercilessly into the ground.

Ashley’s only disappointment was that the match didn’t last longer. There hadn’t been enough time to sweat out all of her fury. She wondered if there would ever be enough time. In the stands there were differing reactions as she stalked off the courts.

"Name of God, Christine, I’ve never seen the girl play better." Paul Darrow beamed like a new father. His voice was hoarse from cheering and cigarettes. A pile of butts lay crushed at his feet. "Did you see how she massacred that Italian?"

"Yes."

"Oh-ho, two matches more and our girl’s going to have another championship in her belt." Paul squeezed Christine’s workworn hands between his two smooth ones. "Nothing’s going to stop her now!"

In her quiet, steady way, Christine stared down at the court. She’d seen more than Ashley’s victory. There’d been fury in her daughter’s eyes. Outrage, hurt. She recognized the combination too well. She’d seen it in a little girl who’d been teased because her father had deserted her. Then, she’d used her fists to compensate. Today, Christine mused, she’d used a racket. As Paul recounted every serve and smash, Christine sat silently and wondered what had put that look back in her daughter’s eyes.

"Mom." Kyla leaned close so that her voice wouldn’t carry. "Something’s wrong with Ash, isn’t it?"