Duran: No. I’ve told you before, Henrik: that’s what your father thought. You were seven. You didn’t know what to think. And then the light was everywhere. You were bathed in it, remember?

Henrik: Yes. Yes, of course.

Duran: It was like—can you tell me what it was like, Henrik?

Henrik: I don’t know.

Duran: It was like a searchlight, wasn’t it?

Henrik: Yes! In my chest. It was like… a searchlight in my chest!

Adrienne shut off the tape recorder, and stared at Duran, who was himself on the edge of his chair, looking shocked. “You’re making it up,” she told him.

He nodded.

“It’s like a script,” she said.

“I know.”

“That’s supposed to be ‘therapy’?”

He shook his head. “No. It’s… something else. I don’t know what it is.”

“And this guy thinks… what? What’s his problem?”

Duran cleared his throat. “He’s completely delusional. He thinks he was abducted by a flying saucer. He thinks there’s a worm in his heart that gives him orders.”

Adrienne’s laughter came in a short, angry burst, then stopped as suddenly as it began. “What are you doing to this man?”

Duran was speechless for a moment. Then he cleared his throat for a second time, and said, “Well, it sounds like I’m driving him crazy.”

“Like Nico, only with a different story.”

He didn’t know what to say.

Leaning over, she pressed the Play button, and listened as Duran led his client deeper and deeper into madness. Half an hour later, when the session had come to an end, she hit Stop and looked at him. “I don’t get it,” she told him. “Why are you putting all this… crap in people’s heads?”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s like you’re training them for the Jerry Springer Show! I mean, my sister thought the Devil was screwing her when she was ten, and this guy—Henry—”

“Henrik.”

“Whatever! This guy thinks he’s got a tapeworm in his head—”

“Heart.”

“Don’t! I’m not one of your patients!”

“I know that, but—”

“What’s up, Doc?”

He shook his head, searching for the words. Finally, he said, “I’m not sure. I mean, it’s not me—that’s not me.”

“What?!”

“Well, it is, but… I wouldn’t talk to a client like that.”

“You can hear yourself.”

“I know, but—”

“What? It’s you? It’s not you? Which is it? What?”

He was silent for a moment. Finally, he said, “Yeah. Like that. Just like that.”

That evening, Duran went out for dinner, returning half an hour later with a rotisserie chicken, plastic tubs of potato salad—and a chilled bottle of Chardonnay. They ate in the kitchen, in silence, at a gray formica table whose metallic edge reminded Adrienne of the kitchen table in Deck and Marlena’s house.

Finally, she stood up, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. “I’m going out for a while,” she told him.

“You want company?” Duran asked.

“No. I need to think.”

The night was cool, the air fresh. But she was having a hard time dealing with the thought of Duran coaxing Nikki into madness, just as he’d cajoled the German (or whatever he was).

And then, just as she was starting to like him (he had a nice sense of humor, after all, and the good habit of rescuing her from harm)… Just as she was starting to like him (he was really quite good-looking, when you got down to it—tall and lean, with even features and cobalt-blue eyes)… Just as she was starting to like him, it was becoming more and more apparent that he was like… Rasputin.

She walked to the end of the boardwalk and thought about turning back, but instead took the wooden steps down to the beach. She’d get sand in her shoes, but she didn’t care. It was a gorgeous night, the stars so luminous they looked wet, the moon a cold clean sphere beaming a path of pure silver onto the black water. The tide was out. The surf rolled in with a soft roar, and receded with a chatter of pebbles.

Duran, she thought. What was he doing? He was as fragile, in his own way, as Nikki had been—or, at least, as disconnected. Taking off her shoes, she carried them in her hand as she walked along the waterline, flirting with the little waves. Why such crazy ideas? she wondered. They weren’t even original, or particularly interesting. Aliens and Satanic abuse. It was ridiculous. No one took that sort of thing seriously—not anymore, not if they ever did.

And a worm? In the heart? Pleeeze.

It would be absurd if it weren’t murderous—and it was murderous. Bonilla was dead, and so was the partner of the man who’d killed him. And the guy in the Comfort Inn stairwell, as well. And her, too, if it wasn’t for… Duran.

She muttered to herself, and shook her head. It didn’t make sense. Why did Nikki have a gun—and that gun? What was that… stuff in the apartment next to Duran’s? And what were they looking for in her apartment?

She couldn’t figure it. Pretty much the only thing in her apartment that had anything to do with Nikki was: her ashes. If they were after the gun, well, she didn’t have that. It was still at Nikki’s place, sitting in her closet. The only other thing was… the laptop.

But she’d already looked through its folders and files, and there was nothing in it. The address book contained a dozen names beside Duran’s and her own, and none of them was of much interest: Ramon and the bank, a couple of takeouts. Jack’s vet. There were some other names that she didn’t remember, but all of them were transparent. A nail salon. Merry Maids. That kind of thing. There were no boyfriends who might be blamed for her suicide, or any listings to suggest membership in the Georgetown Militia or the Lady Snipers Association.

Still…

When she got back to the house, she saw that Duran had done the dishes and cleaned up the kitchen. She heard the television in the other room—a bright voice delivering a line of dialogue, a responding surge of laughter—but when she went in, she found Duran asleep on the couch.

Carrying the laptop into the kitchen, she set it on the table, raised its screen and toggled the On-Off switch. Then she sat back, and waited for the machine to boot up.

It took a minute to go through its routine, and when it was done, she logged onto Nikki’s AOL account, letting the automated password routine do its work. Soon, she was in the “Mail Center,” looking at New Mail, Old Mail, Sent Mail… and, of course, there was nothing of interest. A couple of bulletins from Travelocity; some newsletters from the Jack Russell Terrier Society; come-ons from E*trade and a couple of e-tailers selling vitamins, makeup and nutritional supplements. But that was it.

Signing off, she returned to the Windows Desktop and clicked on the icon for Nikki’s accounting program, Quicken. She had the vague intention of “following the money,” but the program must have been bundled with Windows when Nikki bought it, because it had never been used.

There was a calendar in the Microsoft Outlook program, and if Nikki’s life had been anything like Adrienne’s, it would have been quite revealing. Her own calendar was crammed with appointments and reminders of every kind. It tracked her weight, and logged the distances she ran. It reminded her of birthdays, deadlines, and a lot more. But Nikki’s calendar was as stripped-down as her life. There were appointments—with Duran, the nail salon, the hairdresser, the vet. And every two weeks, the simple legend: A—here at 7, or A—her place at 8—reminders of the alternating venues for their dinners together (half of which, Adrienne realized, she had weaseled out of). But that was it. The calendar did not reveal Nikki to be a secret churchgoer, devil-worshiper, or art student. She had not attended a support group for the ritually abused. Neither had she taken marksmanship lessons.