“So how did the bloody clothes get under her bed? How did the gun end up in her bathroom?”

“Maybe she put them there, Sam.”

“Merritt?”

I shrugged.

“Or…Brenda?” he said.

Did he know something about Brenda? I certainly didn’t, so I didn’t respond to his question. Merritt’s revelations about her visit to Dr. Robilio’s house were hovering close by. I didn’t want to break that trust. “Where did they find the fingernail, Sam? Merritt’s broken nail?”

From the look on his face, I harbored little hope he was going to answer, so I was surprised when he said, “I’ll give you one. A freebie. Master bathroom. Second floor. Below the window.”

“Upstairs?”

“Upstairs.”

“What was she doing upstairs?”

“Funny question. It’s as though you already know what she was doing in the rest of the house.”

Upstairs in the ICU the girls were asleep together in the same bed. Trent was pacing outside in the corridor.

He said, “They went downstairs to talk. Sherry and Brenda. I’m really glad she came.”

I asked, “How are things?”

“Same. Right now, stable feels like a gift.”

Sam said, “You look like you could use a little break, John. Why don’t you take one? I’ll stay close to the girls until the wives get back.”

“Thanks, Sam, I think I will. I could use a little time. I’ll be in the building but I have my pager on. The nurse has the number.”

Sam checked in with the nurse at the ICU and I followed Trent as he shuffled away toward the elevators.

“John, can I have a minute?”

“Sure.”

“You, um, remember anything-I don’t know-additional about your visit to Dr. Robilio’s house that may help me understand things better?”

“Help you how?” His voice was edgy. I’d woken him up a little.

I felt as though I had to choose my reply as carefully as if I were adding a king of hearts to a five-story house of cards. “I’m still trying to understand what she heard, what she saw, you know, something that might have motivated her to go over there that day.”

“She knew how angry I was.”

“Yes?”

“That’s all.”

“That’s all?”

I thought he hesitated, but I couldn’t be sure. “If I think of anything else, I’ll tell you. It’s been a long day, Alan. I’m going to rest a little.”

I wanted to press him, ask him if he was involved in the custody eval for Robilio’s sister-in-law. I couldn’t.

I woke Merritt to take her back upstairs for the night. It took two seconds to rouse her, much longer to calm the adrenaline surge she had upon awakening. She kissed her Uncle Sam on the cheek before mounting a meek protest about returning to the psychiatric unit to sleep.

When we arrived upstairs all the other kids were down for the night. The unit was quiet, surreal. Sometimes I’m surprised that adolescents actually require slumber like other homo sapiens.

A nurse checked Merritt onto the unit, made sure she had eaten.

When they were done with their routine I said to Merritt, “We need to talk some more, come with me.”

She protested, her voice wary. She said, “I’m tired.”

I said, “Too bad, we’re all tired,” and led her to the familiar consultation room.

I sat down and made certain there was an unmistakable edge in my voice as I said, “You’re not being honest with me, Merritt.” I wanted her to find my manner disconcerting.

She sat on the edge of her chair and chewed at her upper lip before she said, “I haven’t lied to you.” The tenor of her words was explanatory, not defensive.

“Well, simply not lying to me is no longer good enough.”

She yawned. “How about tomorrow?”

“No, now. I actually think I’m prepared to sit here all night.”

She huffed, “Screw you, then, you can sit here by yourself.” She stood, reaching for the doorknob. “I’m done talking to you.”

“If that’s the case, you won’t be going back downstairs tomorrow, Merritt.”

She hissed, “You wouldn’t do that.”

I wouldn’t do that, she was right, but she couldn’t be sure. Nor could she know that I had another trump card that I was keeping pressed against my chest. I didn’t respond.

Again, she said, “You wouldn’t?” while she stared at my impassive face. Finally she nodded. “You would, wouldn’t you? You would keep me from seeing her. God, I can’t believe I trusted you.”

“With any luck, your sister won’t be in the ICU tomorrow, Merritt.”

“What do you mean? What’s happening?”

I turned my hands palms-up. “This is a two-way street. I’m not going to do all the talking.”

“What is this, blackmail?”

“Technically, no. Call it leverage. That’s a more pleasant word.”

“I want to call downstairs and talk to my parents. They’ll tell me.”

“I don’t think so. Unit rules don’t allow middle-of-the-night phone calls. I hope your parents and your sister are resting.”

“You jerk.”

“Talk to me, Merritt. Tell me what happened.”

“You want me to just give up, don’t you?”

“Yes, I want you to give up.”

“No! What good is it going to do anybody? Why should I give up?”

I said a silent prayer to the gods who controlled prescience, exhaled, and said, “Because I know about the videotape.”

Ten minutes passed. She disappeared into a cocoon of confusion, or despair, or something. I considered the possibility that I had stunned her back into volitional silence. And I considered the possibility that I was so far off the mark with my speculation that she no longer considered me worth talking to.

She was looking at her feet when she said, “Have you seen it? The tape?”

“Tell me about it.”

“Have you seen the damn thing? Tell me that first. God.”

At that moment, it took all my professional resolve not to walk across the room and take her into my arms and rock her until all her fear and despair dissolved into the night air.

But I sat without moving. I watched without blinking. I didn’t swallow and I wasn’t aware of breathing.

“Do my parents know? At least tell me that.”

“I haven’t told them.”

She blurted out, “It was all Madison’s idea,” and she buried her face in her hands.

I said, “Take your time, Merritt. Take your time.”

She folded her arms and unfolded them. She chanced a glance at me, then away. For a moment she seemed fascinated by her hair. She wiped tear tracks from her face and tried to swallow, but her mouth was too dry.

I didn’t offer her anything to drink.

“You know I didn’t shoot him, right?”

Tell her you hear her, don’t be too committal. “I remember where we left off earlier.”

“I almost killed myself right there. In his house. With the gun. His gun. I picked it up and pointed it at my head.” She extended the index finger of her right hand, cocked her thumb up, and touched her fingernail to a spot an inch above her right ear. “I put it back down once and then I picked it up again. The whole time I was kneeling in all the blood. I was covered in his blood and I could taste it in my mouth from trying to resuscitate him, and I didn’t see any way out of it but to die.”

Years before, in my training, as I listened to the pathos of a young woman who had survived a serious suicide attempt, I enjoyed a revelation that it was one of the only times doing therapy that I would know in advance how the story turned out. I shared my insight with my supervisor. She told me I was wrong. She said, “Don’t be cocky, you don’t know how the story ends. You only know how this chapter turns out.”

I reminded myself of that lesson.

“The phone rang. I screamed. I needed to get out of there. I was still going to kill myself, so I picked up the gun and I ran as fast as I could.” She laughed. “I got outside and I saw that I was covered in blood. And I was carrying a gun. It was all so weird, I mean, think about it. So I stopped in his backyard and took off my sweatshirt and used it to wipe some of the blood off my legs and hands and I wrapped the gun in it and I walked home. A couple of people saw me. I thought they looked at me funny. But they didn’t say anything.”