“Go on.”

“Well, she had a little ceramic case. A special case that was shaped like a tooth.”

Duran laughed.

“Really! And it had a hinge that you opened, and ‘Tooth Fairy’ was engraved on the top. I thought it was wonderful,” Adrienne told them, “though now that I think about it… well… it seems a little strange.”

She giggled nervously.

“Go on.”

“Well, the tooth went in the box and the box went under my pillow and, when I woke up in the morning, there was always a dollar bill—all folded up in a tiny little wad—instead of the tooth. Gram didn’t understand how mercenary I was—I was ready to pull out the rest of them.”

“You see,” Shaw said, gesturing toward Adrienne with an open palm, “you recall it perfectly. As you should. Losing a tooth is a rite of passage—and almost everyone has some recollection of it. But not Jeffrey. Jeffrey doesn’t remember anything about it at all.”

He glanced at Duran, who shrugged.

“Anyway, as I was telling Jeff—I have a catalog of unimportant incidents of that kind. Things we all did—like eating lunch in elementary school, going out for a haircut, going to the dentist. I could give you dozens of examples of what amount to collective memories, memories that you might say are common to the human condition—or at least to the American condition. But—” Shaw turned to Duran with an apologetic smile. “Our friend, here, might as well be from Mars. Of all the events I suggested—and there were a dozen of them—Jeffrey responded to exactly two.” He held up his fingers, like a peace sign. “He remembers going to the beach—Bethany Beach—with his parents. And he remembers blowing out the candles on a birthday cake. Everything else is a blank—and that’s not what I expected.”

Adrienne looked puzzled. “Why not? We know he has amnesia.”

Shaw tilted his head from side to side. “Yes, but we also know he’s a confabulator. And that’s what makes the case so interesting: he’s a twofer. And not just any twofer. Mr. Duran is convinced that his recollections are true—that’s why he passed the lie detector test that you mentioned, and that’s why he naively took you to a beach cottage that didn’t exist. All of which is consistent with what I learned this afternoon. When I asked Jeff about these insignificant events that we’ve been talking about, he made no effort whatsoever at invention. Either he remembered them, or he didn’t. Mostly, he didn’t.”

“But what does that mean?” Adrienne asked.

“That he’s not a conman.”

“And?”

“That he’s delusional as well as amnesic.” Shaw turned to Duran. “Are you sure you’re comfortable with me discussing you in this way?”

Duran rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Adrienne and I are old friends. Ever since she stopped suing me.”

Shaw looked surprised. “You’re suing him?”

Adrienne shook her head. “No. I was. But I’m not.”

The psychiatrist took this in stride. “At any rate, we went through some of the clinical tests I mentioned earlier.”

“And?”

“Everything’s normal—except the patient.” He smiled. “So I hypnotized him.”

Adrienne frowned. “But… I thought you were opposed to hypnosis.”

“On the contrary. It’s a useful tool—and I thought it might relax him. Loosen his inhibitions.”

“And did it?” Adrienne asked.

“No—even under hypnosis, he was still drawing blanks. But the incidents he did recall—going to the beach, his first birthday cake (and first birthday party)—well that was even more interesting.”

“How so?”

“He told me the same stories. And I mean, exactly the same stories. Almost word for word. As if he were reciting a poem, or a speech.”

“Which means what?” Adrienne asked.

Doctor Shaw shook his head. “Too soon to say. But there are a couple of tests I’d like him to take—just so we can rule a few things out.”

“Like what?”

“Hippocampal damage.”

“And these tests… what are they?” Adrienne asked.

“CAT scan. PET scan. MRI.”

It was Adrienne’s turn to roll her eyes. “I don’t think Mr. Duran has the money—”

“He’s insured,” Shaw told her. “We checked.”

“Is he?” she asked. “With Mutual General?”

“No,” Duran told her. “I’ve got Traveler’s. The other was malpractice insurance—for the tapes.”

Shaw got to his feet, and went to the receptionist’s desk. Opening one drawer after another, he finally produced a map and some papers, which he handed to Duran.

“What’s that?” Adrienne said, looking over Duran’s shoulder.

“A map of the hospital, shows you where the lab is. Consent forms.” Shaw glanced at his watch, and made a helpless gesture. “Oh, Jesus,” he said, “I’m going to catch hell.”

“Sorry,” Adrienne told him, pulling together her little bundle of shoes and sweaty running clothes.

The psychiatrist waved away her concern. “Won’t be the first time.” He led them out the door to the elevator. “You the nervous type, Jeffrey? Claustrophobic?”

Duran shrugged. “How would I know?”

Shaw chuckled. “Well, if you think you’ll have a problem with the MRI, tell the technician. He’ll give you something that will help you chill out.”

The car had a ticket tucked under its windshield. “God damn it!” Adrienne wailed. She rushed to pluck it free, as if it might replicate if she didn’t remove it in a hurry. “It’s a hundred bucks!” She looked at it and saw that the ticket had been written hours ago, during the time she’d been running. Getting lost in Central Park—she’d been worried about getting back late to Shaw’s office and had forgotten about the meter. It wasn’t fair but she turned toward Duran as if it was his fault: “Why did you have to take so long?”

He could sense her frustration, and knew better than to test it. So rather than making a wisecrack, or replying that the trip was her idea, he said, “I don’t know. I’m sorry you had to wait.”

Two minutes later, they were in the car, heading toward lower Manhattan, and she was apologizing. “It’s my fault,” she said, her tone emphatic and remorseful. “I parked there. I forgot to feed the meter. I don’t know why I’m yelling at you.” She sighed. “Sometimes, when I get stressed out—”

“Forget it.”

“No, that was bad. I know it wasn’t your idea to spend all that time in his office, being grilled from A to Z. I’m just a jerk.” She seemed so disconsolate that he wanted to put his arm around her.

Instead, he said, “I know you’re worried about money. You didn’t even want to spend the night here.”

“Yeah, but don’t try to talk me out of it,” she told him, beginning to laugh. “I like to wallow.” She let out an exaggerated moan. “A hundred dollars… shit!” The windshield fogged up and she rubbed at it with the heel of her hand.

“Where are we going?”

“I made a reservation at a hotel on Washington Square.”

“Great.”

She laughed. “I doubt it. It’s going for seventy bucks a night.”

“Ah… and what does Lonely Planet say about it?”

“That it’s ‘reasonably clean. Safe. A budget alternative.’”

“There you go!” Duran exclaimed. “That’s the trifecta.”

“Well… “ she said, her voice doubtful.

“What’s not to like?” he asked.

She thought about it for a moment, and said, “‘Reasonably.’”