“A film?”

“A film and the raw materials relating to it. Mini-DV tapes, DVD disks, audiotapes, like that. It’s all in two boxes.”

“What kind of film?”

“I’m making a documentary about sexual abuse and repressed memory.”

This revelation comes as such a surprise that I’m not sure how to respond. Yet it makes perfect sense. Recalling Malik in his all-black getup, it’s easy to see him as some sort of revolutionary film-maker.

“Nothing like it has ever been seen before,” he says with gravity. “It’s the most emotionally devastating thing ever committed to film. If it reaches the screen, it will shake this country to its foundations.”

“What does it show? Actual sexual abuse?”

“In a way. It shows women reliving abuse in a group setting. Some of them obviously regress to a childhood state. Their experiences are shattering.”

“I assume the women are patients of yours. Did they give their permission for you to record them?”

“Yes. They’re part of a very special group. An experimental group. Women only. I formed it after years of watching conventional therapy approaches fail. I chose patients who were at the stage where the eruption of delayed memories was beginning to destroy their lives, and where multigenerational abuse seemed likely. They were highly motivated. I’ve spent seven months working with them, and we’ve done some groundbreaking things.”

“Is that the extent of it? Women in group therapy?”

Malik makes a sound I can’t interpret. “You shouldn’t denigrate what you’ve never experienced, Catherine. Never fear, though. I’ve recorded certain other activities as well. I can’t discuss those now. Let’s just say they’re highly controversial in nature. Explosive might be a better word.”

Certain other activities? “Are you talking about the murders?”

“I can’t discuss the specifics of the film with you now.”

My heart rate is steadily accelerating. “Do you plan to show this film anywhere?”

“Yes, but right now I’m more concerned with keeping it safe.”

“From whom?”

“A lot of people would like this film to disappear. My film and all my records. These people are terrified of the truths I know.”

“If you’re that worried, why not turn yourself in to the FBI?”

“The FBI wants to jail me for murder.”

“If you’re innocent, what does that matter?”

“There are degrees of innocence.”

“I think you’re talking about degrees of guilt, Doctor.”

“That’s a philosophical question we don’t have time for. I’ll turn myself in when the time is right. For now, I need your help. Will you keep my film safe for me?”

“Look, I couldn’t do it even if I wanted to. The FBI is probably following me. They may even be listening to this call.”

“By tomorrow maybe. We’re safe for now. Do you have a pen?”

I glance around the bedroom, but there’s nothing to write with. My purse is in my Audi, across the river from DeSalle Island. “No, but I have a good memory.”

“Memorize this phone number. Five zero four, eight zero two, nine nine four one. Do you have it?”

I repeat the number aloud and commit it to memory.

“If you need to speak to me after this,” Malik says, “leave a message at that number.”

“I want to speak to you now, and not about your film.”

“Hurry.”

“Why did you tell me not to trust my family?”

“I’m trying to protect you.”

“From what?”

Malik sighs as if unsure whether he can spare the time to talk to me. “Families like yours are made up of three types of people. Offenders, deniers, and victims. Every family member plays one of these roles. When a victim begins digging into her past and making assertions of abuse, the other family members become paranoid. Their interest is maintaining the status quo. You threaten that. The emotions that swirl around sexual abuse frequently spill over into family violence.”

“That’s shrink-speak, Doctor. I’ve heard enough of it to know. You have specific information about my family. About my father. Why are you keeping it from me?”

“I’m not your therapist, Catherine.”

“I want you to be. I’ll meet you somewhere for a session.”

“You don’t need to speak to me alone. You need a group. And my days as a practicing psychiatrist are clearly over.”

“Why do I need a group?”

“Because your problem is sexual abuse. One of the main elements of the abusive relationship is secrecy. A one-on-one relationship with a therapist can mirror the primary abusive relationship. In group therapy, that cycle of secrecy is broken.”

“Look, you chose me, okay? You started this secret relationship. I’m ready to talk to you now, and without the FBI listening in this time.”

“You want a session? Keep my film for me. You’d be doing yourself a favor, too.”

I’m tempted. I want to see what Malik really did behind the closed doors of his office. But the FBI could be listening to this call. “I’d like to see it, but I can’t promise I’ll keep it for you.”

“Then we have no reason to meet.”

“Why the hell would you meet me anyway? I could bring the FBI with me. Why would you risk that?”

“There’s no risk. I do know things about your father, Catherine. I know why he was murdered. And if you bring the FBI with you, I’ll never tell.”

For once, I’m a step ahead of Malik. “I already know why my father was killed.”

“You don’t. You don’t know anything.”

My heart flutters like the wings of a panicked bird. “Why are you playing games with me? I just want the truth.”

Malik’s voice drops lower. “You already know the truth, Catherine. It’s written indelibly in the convolutions of your brain. You just have to peel away everything that’s laid over it.”

“How do I do that?”

“You’re already doing it. Just follow the memories where they lead. The truth will set you free.”

“I can’t wait for that! Someone’s trying to kill me.”

Malik sighs deeply. “Why were you having panic attacks at the crime scenes in New Orleans?”

“I don’t know. Do you?”

“Come on, Catherine. You know how therapy works. I’m prodding you to find your own answers.”

“You’re fucking with me is what you’re doing!”

“Who do you think tried to kill you today?”

“It might have been a black guy who knew my dad years ago. I don’t know. Do you know?”

“No. But you do. If only you think about it in the right way.”

“You said the New Orleans murders both are and aren’t connected to my personal life. What did you mean by that?”

“What do you think I meant?”

I close my eyes and try not to scream. I feel like I’m in a Kafka novel. Every question is answered by another question; everyone around me knows the obvious truth about my life, but I can’t see it. “What are you trying to tell me? Everyone keeps asking me if I was ever your patient. Have you given them that idea?”

“Do you think you might have been my patient at some point?”

“I’m hanging up this phone in five seconds.”

“No, you’re not. My experimental group is called Group X. Does that ring a bell anywhere?”

Group X? “No. Should it?”

“We don’t have time for this,” Malik says, his voice suddenly impatient. “Not now. But I do want to talk to you-preferably on film. Will you appear on camera?”

“ What? No.”

“Then-”

“I thought the FBI confiscated all your video equipment.”

“I still have a camera with me. Quite a good one. Look, you can’t understand it yet, but there’s a symmetry to all this. An underlying symmetry that you’ll ultimately appreciate. We need to find a safe place to meet, a place where we can speak privately. We should do it tomorrow. When we’re finished, you take possession of my film. At that point, I’ll turn myself over to the FBI.”

“Why don’t you just leave your film with your lawyer?”

“Because I despise lawyers. I intend to represent myself.”