She smiled at him indulgently. “The important thing is that you’ve gone back to work,” she said. “Gotten out of that apartment.”

Henry would believe him. He knew what Gretchen was capable of. But then what? Henry would make sure that Archie never saw Gretchen again.

“You should be grateful to Paul,” Gretchen continued wickedly. “He donated two pints of blood to you.”

Archie turned his head, nauseous. The image of Reston on the AstroTurf green carpet, head bloody meat, flashed in his head. “Do you really like Godard?” Archie asked her.

“No,” she said. “But I know that you do.”

He was starting to wonder if there was anything left that Gretchen Lowell didn’t know about him.

“Now you answer a question for me,” she said. She placed a hand on top of the hand she was already holding, so that he was entirely in her grasp. “Were you attracted to me, that day we first met? When I was the psychiatrist writing a book?”

“I was married.”

“So cagey. Be honest.”

He had already betrayed Debbie utterly. Why not this, too? “Yes.”

She pulled her hands from his and sat back. “Let me see it.”

He knew what she meant, and hesitated only briefly before reaching up and slowly unbuttoning his shirt. Then, when it was open, he pulled the shirt apart so she could see his ravaged torso.

She leaned forward over the table, her knees on her chair, perched on her elbows on the table, so she could see. He didn’t move, didn’t flinch, as she reached forward and ran her fingertip over the heart she had carved on him. But he wondered if she could see the pulse in his neck quicken. He could smell her hair. Not like lilacs anymore, some industrial prison shampoo, harsh and fruity. She moved her fingers to the vertical scar that divided his chest, and Archie felt the muscles in his stomach, and lower, tense.

“Is this from the esophageal surgery?” she asked.

He nodded.

Then the fingers danced to the midline scar that divided his lower torso.

“This isn’t my incision.”

He cleared his throat. “They had to open me up again. There was a little bleeding.”

She nodded and moved her fingers over the smaller scars now, from the X-Acto knife she had used to doodle on him. Her fingers traced the half-moon scars along his scapula, then across his nipples, then down to the hash-mark scars in the tender skin of his flank. It had been more than two years since he’d been touched. He was afraid to move. Afraid of what? That she’d stop? He closed his eyes. He would give himself this one brief moment of pleasure. What could it hurt? It felt good. And he hadn’t felt good in longer than he could remember. Her fingers skated lower. Blood rushed to his groin. She was unfastening his belt now. Fuck. He opened his eyes and grabbed one of her hands by the wrist and held it there.

She looked up, eyes shining, cheeks pink. “You don’t have to pretend to be good with me, Archie.”

He held her hand there, centimeters from his hard-on.

“I can make you feel better,” she said. “Just let my wrist go. No one has to know.”

But he held on to her. Every cell in his body begged him to let her touch him. But what was left of his mind knew that if he did, it would be the last thing, that she would have some last part of him. It would be over. She would own him entirely. She was amazingly good. She could torture him without even touching him. He laughed at that, and pushed her hands away.

“What’s funny?” she asked.

He shook his head. “You’ve done one hell of a job fucking me up,” he said. He got the pillbox from his pants pocket, opened it, and dumped a handful of pills into his hand. Then he popped them into his mouth one at a time and swallowed them.

“You’re already high,” Gretchen noted.

“Careful,” Archie said. “You sound like Debbie.”

“You have to watch the pills. The acetaminophen will kill you. Do your kidneys hurt yet?”

“Sometimes.”

“If you experience fever, jaundice, or vomiting, you need to get to an emergency room before your liver gives out. Are you drinking?”

“I’m fine, sweetheart,” Archie said.

“There are easier ways to kill yourself. I’ll do it for you.” She caught his eye. “If you bring me a razor.”

“Yeah,” he said with a sigh. “You’d kill me, and the first three guards who came in after me. Don’t let my erection confuse you. I still know what you are.”

She reached out and touched his face. Her hand was warm and gentle, and he turned into it almost by instinct. “Poor Archie,” she said. “I’m just getting started with you.”

She really was beautiful, Archie thought through his pill haze. There was something delicate about her. The luminous skin. The perfect features. Sometimes he could fool himself into thinking that she was almost human. He turned his cheek, and her hand fell away. “How many men like Reston do you have out there?” he asked. “How many time bombs?”

Gretchen leaned back in her chair and smiled. “Including you?”

Archie felt the room slip around him. “You had it planned all along. To call nine one one. To save me. To turn yourself in.”

“If you lived,” Gretchen said matter-of-factly. “If you had died, I would have dismembered and buried you.”

It was hot in the room. Archie felt the moist burn of sweat under his clothes. Gretchen looked cool and calm. Maybe it was just the pills. He cracked his neck and wiped the sweat off his upper lip. He could feel the heart scar throb under his shirt, his real heart beating underneath it. “It was a good plan,” he managed. He planted his hands on the table and stood. “Except that I’m not like Reston and the jackasses you got to murder for you. I know what you’re capable of.” He looked around the room, the cinder-block tomb they met in every week. She had manipulated him again and again. They had manipulated each other. But he had one power. The card she thought he wouldn’t play. “You made one other miscalculation,” he said. “You got yourself locked up.” He raised an eyebrow and lifted his hands off the table. “And you can’t fuck with me if I’m not here.”

Gretchen was unimpressed. “You’ll stay away a few weeks. But you’ll need the bodies.” She tilted her head at him and smiled, radiant. “You’ll need me.”

Probably, Archie thought. “Maybe,” he said.

She shook her head sympathetically. “It’s too late. You won’t feel better.”

Archie laughed. “I don’t need to feel better,” he said. His tone turned cold. “I just need you to feel worse.”

She leaned forward, her blond hair brushing her shoulders. “You’ll still dream about me. You won’t be able to touch another woman without thinking of me.”

He put a hand back on the table and lifted the other to his throbbing temple. “Please, Gretchen.”

She smiled wickedly. “You’ll think about me tonight, won’t you?” she said. “When you’re all alone in the dark. Your cock in your hand.”

Archie hung his head for a moment. And then he laughed to himself, looked up, and walked around the table to her. She glanced up, surprised, as he stood over her and reached out and touched her hair, the blond slick beneath his fingers. She started to speak and he put a finger on her mouth and he said quietly, “You don’t get to talk yet.” And he cupped her face in his hands and leaned down and he kissed her. He moved one hand behind her neck in her hair as their tongues met, the heat of the kiss momentarily overwhelming him. In that kiss he could taste the bitter pills, the salt of his own sweat, and in her mouth a sweetness almost like lilacs. He had to force himself to disentangle his fingers from her hair, wrench himself away, his lips moving from her mouth, across her smooth cheek, finding her ear. “I think about you every night,” he whispered.

Then he straightened up and he said, “It’s over.”

He hit the buzzer by the door with the heel of his fist. The door opened and he walked through it.