“Maybe some did, I didn't. Maybe I could've, I don't know—I sure didn't feel I could. Everyone walking around smiling, saying how great Dr. B. was. Such a beautiful guy. You found yourself saying it, too, mouthing along without thinking, like one of those dumb camp songs. There was this—this feverish atmosphere to the place. Grinning idiots. Like a cult. You felt if you spoke out against him, someone would pour poison Kool-Aid down your throat.”

“Was physical punishment ever part of bad love?”

“Once in a while—usually a slap, a pinch, nothing that hurt too much. It was mostly the humiliation—the surprise. When he wanted to hurt you, he'd poke you in the elbow or the shoulder. Flick his finger on the bone. He knew all the spots . . . nothing that would leave a scar, not that anyone would have believed us, anyway. Who were we? Truants, fuckups, rejects. Even now, would I be credible? Four abortions, Valium, Librium, Thorazine, Elavil, lithium? All the other things I've done? Wouldn't some lawyer dig that up and put me on trial? Wouldn't I be a piece of shit all over again?”

“Probably.”

Her smile was rich with disgust. “I'm jazzed that he's dead—doubly jazzed he did it to himself—his turn for humiliation.”

She looked up at the ceiling.

“What is it?” I said.

“Killing himself—do you think he could have felt some guilt?”

“With what you've told me, it's hard to imagine.”

“Yeah. You're probably right . . . yeah, he slapped me plenty of times, but the pain was welcome. 'Cause when he was getting physical, he wasn't talking. His voice. His words. He could reach into your center and squeeze the life out of you . . . did you know he used to write columns in magazines—humane child rearing? People sent in problems and he'd offer fucking solutions?”

I sighed.

“Yes,” she said. “My sad, sad story—such pathos.” Looking around the restaurant, she cupped one ear. “Any daytime-serial people listening? Got a bitchin' script for you.”

“You never told anyone?”

“Not until you, dear.” Smile. “Aren't you flattered? All those shrinks and you're the very first—why, you've deflowered me—busted my psychological cherry!”

“Interesting way to put it.”

“But fitting, right? Therapy's just like fucking—you open yourself up to a stranger and hope for the best.”

I said, “You said you saw other kids going into the rooms. Were they taken by other people, or just de Bosch?”

“Mostly by him, sometimes by that creepy daughter of his. I always got personal attention from the big cheese—Daddy's social position and all that.”

“Katarina was involved in treatment? When exactly were you there?”

“Seventy-six.”

“She was only twenty-three. Still a student.”