Margie leaned forward. “Susan… what’s your secret?”

“Excuse me?”

“What’s your secret?”

“I don’t have one.”

She paused a moment. “I remember a patient I had about three years ago. He said everything was fine, too. Then one day I asked him, ‘What’s your secret?’ And he looked at me for a long time. Then he finally told me he was sexually abused when he was six years old. And he started crying. All that fear and anger tumbled out of him. He’s been well ever since.”

So that was what she wanted. Some big fake Hollywoodesque Prince of Tides-like single-event explanation for every problem I’ve ever had. Talk about trite. I considered making one up: I was stolen by Gypsies and forced to work on a coffee plantation in Kenya. But I knew I would be the only one laughing.

“There’s no secret. Your whole approach is psychologically wrongheaded. You can’t boil all of a person’s problems, all of their life, down to one person or incident.”

She remained implacable and insistent. “Susan… what’s your secret?”

What was this-some kind of hypnagogic brainwashing technique? “How many times do I have to say this? There is no secret.”

I could see the other patients in the room shaking their heads sadly. Margie sighed. “I hope that’s true, Susan. For your sake. You have a lovely smile, and I’m glad to see you using it occasionally. Beautiful eyes, too.” She paused, staring at me. “But when I look into those eyes-I see pain.”

At the next break, I left, never to return.

He heard Annabel even before he opened the door. That was unfortunate. He had not expected her to regain consciousness so quickly.

“Who is it?” she shouted as he came through the door. She twisted her head around; it was all she could move. “Who’s there?”

“Just me again, my lovely. Back from the trenches.”

She was lying flat on the table, as pure and unsullied as the day she was born. Her wide limpid eyes stared up at him. No restraints were necessary. She would not be able to move her limbs for some time.

“Why am I here?” she asked. “Where are my clothes?”

“You’re in my laboratory,” he said, maintaining calm, genteel composure. “And it was necessary to remove your garments.”

“I don’t-don’t know what you-what you-” She was trying to fight the drug, to gather her strength. It was hopeless, but he couldn’t help but admire her for trying. “I don’t know what kind of sick bastard you are-”

“I assure you my parents were married at the time of my birth, dear.”

“My boyfriend knows where I went! And when I don’t return, Warren will do whatever it takes to find me.”

A feisty one, this offering. A pleasant contrast to her predecessor. Exhilarating. “Dear me. Do you suppose he might call the law enforcement authorities? My heart’s atwitter.”

“Worse than that, you asshole. He’ll call my mom.”

“Do tell.”

“That’s right. She may be shit as a mother, but she’s got power and money and she won’t let you get away with this.”

“You should not speak ill of your parents, Annabel. It’s most unbecoming.”

“They’ll show you unbecoming, you sicko.”

“Annabel, I don’t care for your tone.”

“You won’t care for anything when my mother gets her hands on you. Now let me out of here!”

He looked down at her with genuine sadness. “That, I am afraid, I cannot do. My plans for you are not complete. But when they are, you will be released.”

“And I’ll be free to go?”

He hesitated only a moment. “You’ll be free.”

“What are these plans?”

“You’ll see.”

“What are you going to do to me?”

“Nothing improper, I assure you.”

“Then why did you take my clothes off?”

“Did you think I had no legitimate purpose? That I did all this for my personal delectation?” He touched her sternum experimentally with his finger, then drew a long, slow line down her breast bone. He used his most mellifluous voice, hoping to calm her. “You can’t appreciate what I’m doing, but it is for your own benefit, to help you fulfill your destiny, to complete your spiritual efflorescence. It was necessary.”

“Necessary for what? For you to get your rocks off?”

He twitched. “You know, my dear, my plan does not require me to advance to the next step until tomorrow. But under the circumstances, I think mayhap it’s best that we proceed immediately.”

“What do you mean? What are you talking about?”

He set down the brown bag he had brought in with him. “Allow me to prepare my tools. Then all will be made clear.”

“What’s that? What is it?” Panic set in. Her voice quavered. She was no longer shouting, no longer demanding. She was scared.

He opened the bag wide and held it before her so she could see the scalpel, clamp, wedge, prong, and drill. “These are my dentistry tools.”

“W-W-What are you going to do with those?”

“I’m afraid you are due for an oral examination, darling.”

Her eyes grew wide and watery. “Are you-are you going to hurt me very much?”

“Yes, I’m afraid I am. I can’t deaden this pain-not without making you unconscious. And you need to be awake as long as possible. So you can appreciate what is happening to you.”

Her face caved, as the horror of her situation became clear. “P-P-Please don’t do this. I’m going to be married. I’m going to have a baby.”

“I don’t think so.” He leaned forward, the metal clamp and wedge reflecting light into her eyes. “Open wide.”

5

The lawyer sat on the other side of his desk, wearing a three-piece suit with a watch chain dangling from his vest pocket. His expression was so earnest it made me want to barf.

“You must understand, Susan. There are many competing factors involved here.”

“What’s so complicated? I’m her only living relative.”

“Granted. But there are complications.”

“I’ve been raising Rachel for three years without any problems.”

His head swayed. “Well…”

“Certainly nothing major. And then I get sick for a week and they steal her away and stick her in a foster home.”

He took a deep breath, then slowly released it. “I don’t want to make you angry, Susan. But if we’re going to get anywhere, we have to be realistic. You did not get sick. You were committed to a detox clinic. Because you are an alcoholic.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“That’s the position of the state, at any rate. And NDHS is not going to allow an alcoholic to retain sole custody or guardianship of a minor without a fight.”

“NDHS needs to mind its own business.”

“This is its business.”

Jerk. Of course, like any good cop, I’d been trained to despise lawyers, so having to go to one for help was excruciating. I’d used this guy, Quentin Delacourt, a few times after David died, for wills and estates stuff that I never really understood. But he didn’t know me. And I didn’t much care for having him make these blanket proclamations about who and what I was.

“I’m not going to sit here defending myself to my own attorney,” I said. “Will you take the case or not?”

“That depends on what you mean.”

“I mean getting my niece back.”

“Are you sure that’s what you want?” He leaned back in his burgundy leather chair, adopting what he undoubtedly thought was a deep, contemplative pose. “There’s no rush. Maybe you should give yourself some time.”

“I gave myself a week. Look what happened.”

“Give yourself a month. Just to relax. No stress, no work. And no alcohol, of course. Give your body a chance to recover. I don’t think you’ve taken any time to get your head together since-”

“I’m not wealthy, Mr. Delacourt. I don’t have the luxury of indulging myself in some spiritual walkabout. I want my niece back-now. I want you to file a motion or whatever it takes to get her yanked out of that hideous foster home.”

He opened a file on his desk and thumbed through it. “From what I can see, the Shepherds’ home is far from hideous. Apparently they have taken in many minors from-um-difficult situations.”