Somebody's slashing up the Manhattan lovelies in Dr. Mark Winters' therapy group--first Rachel, then Maddy (""They found her breasts on the ground beside her""). Who's next? ""Roaring dyke"" Joan? Lily? Andrea? Or tough-talking narrator Brooke, who has bad dreams about her childhood, who's sleeping with the doctor (later she'll sleep with the detective), and who keeps running into a mysterious elderly man who resembles her Uncle Paul. Could this mild-mannered, strangely elusive fellow be the slasher? Anybody who's seen Psycho or its derivatives will realize where all the blood and stuff are leading; apparently neither Dr. Mark nor detective Tony--stupefyingly slow on the pseudo-psychological uptake as well as monumentally unprofessional--know their Hitchcock. Of course, if either of these gents behaved in anything resembling a rational manner, there'd be no book--which wouldn't exactly qualify as a major calamity.