On Sunday night I had a drink with a friend who recently moved down to South Carolina from New York to be with her boyfriend. She'd lived in Manhattan for six years, and was ready for all the amenities that most New Yorkers (except for Madonna) lack: a garage, a yard, and the feeling of security she enjoyed as a child in Wisconsin.

Then, in late June, a serial killer started murdering people with no apparent pattern. An elderly woman, a peach farmer, a 15-year-old girl and her father were all slain by the lone gunman, and my friend couldn't sleep for fear that she'd be next. Living in her town, about two hours south of Charlotte, placed her in the line of fire, so to speak, and the peace she'd moved there for was gone.

Early Tuesday morning, the man was killed in a botched burglary, and my friend will no doubt feel infinitely more at ease about going home than she was on Sunday night. But the fact remains: in many ways, she was safer living in New York than she is in the quiet, affluent community she moved to, a seaside haven for tourists where there are no street lamps because sea turtles are attracted to bright lights, making it impossible to go for walks after dark. So she stays home. "It's like Desperate Housewives," she told me.

It reminds me of something Mia Farrow said to Woody Allen in Husbands and Wives, when he mentions living elsewhere for a change: "You couldn't survive off the island of Manhattan for more than 48 hours."