“Brown. And then a doctorate from Wisconsin. Clinical psychology.”

“What years?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Doesn’t matter.” The line was quiet for a while. Finally, Bonilla said, “Gimme a coupla days.”

And then he hung up.

Duran felt the air flex just before the phone rang, and thought, The phone. Then it rang—and he jumped, despite himself. Pushing the mute button on the remote control (Oprah was on), he lifted the receiver.

“Mr. Duran?”

The voice was a woman’s, polite and removed. A telemarketer, perhaps, but restrained—not gooey.

“Yes?”

“It’s Adrienne Cope.”

Oh. His shoulders sagged, and he thought, The woman’s unstable. Don’t take it personally. “Oh, hello.” And then, after a short silence, he asked, “What can I do for you?”

“Well,” she said. “I’d like to come and see you—if you’d do me the courtesy.”

The courtesy? He recalled her voice as she raged through the door—with de Groot in the other room: You son of a bitch! You killed her! “I don’t know,” he said. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”

“It would only take a few minutes,” she promised. “I thought we could talk about Nikki.”

Duran winced inside himself. “It’s just that… I’m not sure there’s anything to be gained.”

“Please. It wouldn’t take long, and—it would really help me.”

Duran thought about it, the silence thickening. Maybe she wanted to apologize for her behavior. Maybe she wanted to ask him about her sister’s problems. Talking to him might bring her to closure. It was never easy, he thought, for the people who were left behind. They often blamed themselves, and needed reassurance.

“It would only take a couple of minutes,” she suggested.

Duran heaved a sigh. “Fine.”

“Great. When would be good for you?” she asked, her voice suddenly crisp and efficient.

“Let me take a look,” Duran replied, and opened his appointments book. Finally, he said, “I could see you tomorrow afternoon. Two o’clock?”

That evening, he timed the arrival of his dinner (a four cheese pizza with artichoke hearts from Pizzeria Luna), so that he could eat it during a PBS documentary about the America’s Cup.

Watching the program, Duran felt an almost physical connection to the crew, lowering his head as the boat crested a buoy and came about. The crew’s movements seemed spectacularly fast and fluid on a vessel that was heeling over so sharply that water was pouring over the combings.

His pizza sat on the plate untouched as the sight of the boats held him. The spume of spray kicked up by the jutting prow, the way the sails slapped, slack, and then bellied full as the boat took hold of the wind—this sent an arrow of longing through him so sharp that he could not have spoken if he had to. It was very peculiar. Without intending to, he found himself mimicking the motions of the sailors, tensing in synch with the on-screen crew, anticipating its motions with small, shadow actions. Like a dog, he thought, moving its paws in a dream.

But where does it come from? he wondered. It was all so familiar: the gurgle and slosh of the water, the flash and movement of the crew, the lines, the sails, the salt tang and sparkling sky. He was a sailor. He could feel it. He knew exactly what the crew was doing, and what they were going to do, even before they did it. He was able to anticipate every shift in tack, the precise moment when the hull’s momentum changed, when the wind filled the sails and the ship surged ahead. And yet…

He had not a single memory of sailing a boat—or of being in a boat under sail. Still, he could feel that he was a sailor: it was hardwired into him, and there was no mistaking it. And no remembering, either. When he tried to recall even a single moment at sea, his mind went “into irons” as surely as a ship turning into the wind. The sails went slack, and the boat came to rest, dead in the water, luffing, still.

That’s me, Duran thought. My head’s in irons. And for a moment, he wondered, half seriously, if perhaps he hadn’t been reincarnated. For how else could he have gained such knowledge, if not from a previous life? Reincarnation would explain a lot of things, Duran thought, but… not this. If true, it might explain life after death, but it could never answer the simpler and even more devastating question that Duran was asking himself:

How is it that I’ve become so alone in the world, so utterly disconnected from myself, that I can’t even recall if I know how to sail, or what it was like to be held by my mother. It’s as if I’ve become a sort of rough sketch of myself…

Frustrated by the Jacob’s Ladder of his own identity and feelings, he changed channels. There was a “Real World Marathon” on MTV, and he didn’t have a client for a couple of hours.

When Nico’s sister appeared in his doorway the next afternoon, Duran was surprised to see that she was not alone.

A retro little man was at her side, bouncing on his heels. He seemed to be just this side or that of 50, with laser-trim sideburns and beady eyes. Even without looking, Duran could tell that his fingers were yellowed by nicotine.

“Hi,” Duran said, as he opened the door and stepped aside to let them in.

Adrienne tossed him a glance, and entered with her friend right behind her. It was amazing how much she looked like Nico, and yet… It was a Snow-White/Rose-Red kind of thing, with Adrienne definitely playing Snow-White. The last time Duran had seen Nico, she’d been wearing a tiny skirt and a skintight top. But her sister was having none of that. She wore a demure green dress that came to midcalf, with a rolled collar that crowded her chin. It was like looking at Nico playing dress-up, pretending to be her kindergarten teacher.

Duran closed the door, and turned to his guests. The man handed him an envelope. Duran looked puzzled. “What’s this?”

“You’ve been served,” the man told him.

“I’ve been what?”

“Served.”

“With what?”

A chuckle from Sideburns, who cast a sidelong glance at Adrienne. “Whattaya think?” he asked.

Duran turned to Adrienne, whose cheeks were bright red, though he couldn’t tell if embarrassment or venom had put the color there.

“I’m suing you,” Adrienne said.

“For what?” Duran replied.

“For the intentional infliction of emotional distress—and fraud.” She nodded toward the envelope in his hand. “That’s the complaint,” she explained, and a summons to appear in court. You have twenty days to respond.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Duran exclaimed, shaking his head in disbelief.

“There’s more,” Adrienne went on. “We’ve been to the police. They want to talk with you.”

Duran shook his head. “Look,” he said, “I know what grief can do to people, but… your sister was a very troubled woman.”

“And you’re a very troubled man,” Sideburns said. “Or you will be—because you’re going to the joint, ‘Doc.’”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Duran said.

“There’s nothing ‘ridiculous’ about it. You’re a fraud,” Adrienne told him.

“And we can prove it,” Sideburns said.

Duran closed his eyes, and shook his head. Then he opened his eyes, and looked directly into Adrienne’s. “I did everything I could for your sister.”

“Actually,” Sideburns said, “that might be true—but it’s not the point. The issue is: you’re a quack. You broke the law.”

“What law?”

“You got a pencil? Write this down: Chapter 33, Section 2, 3310 dot 1. Check it out.”

“Check what out?” Duran asked.

“D.C. Criminal Code. You’re ‘practicing a health occupation without a license.’ Not good.”

Duran turned to Sideburns, and focused on him for the first time. He looked as if he was made of bone and gristle, one of those wiry guys who got into a lot of fights as a kid—and kept on going. “Not to make too much of a point of it,” Duran said, “but who the fuck are you?”