Shrug. “Everyone treated her as if she was a shrink. What she was was a real bitch. Walking around with this smug look on her face—Daddy was the king and she was the princess. Now there's one dutiful daughter who really did want to fuck Papa.”

“Did you have any direct dealings with her?”

“Other than a sneer in the hall? No.”

“What about other staffers? Did you see any of them doing private sessions?”

“No.”

“None of those names I mentioned rang a bell?”

She gave a pained look. “It all blurs—I've been through changes, my whole life until a few years ago is a blur.”

“Can I go over those names again?”

“Sure, why not.” She picked up her cup and drank.

“Grant Stoumen.”

Headshake.

“Mitchell Lerner.”

“Maybe . . . that one's a little familiar, but I have no face to go with it.”

I gave her some time to think.

She said, “Nope.”

“Harvey Rosenblatt.”

“Uh-uh.”

“Wilbert Harrison.”

“No.”

“He's a little man who wears purple all the time.”

“Does he ride a pink elephant?” Grin.

“Myra Evans.”

Eyeblink. Frown.

I repeated the name.

“You used another name before,” she said. “Myra something hyphenated.”

“Evans-Paprock—Paprock was her married name.”

“Evans.” Another smile, not at all happy. “Myra Evans—Myra the Bitch. She was a teacher, right? A little blond with a tight butt and an attitude—am I right?”

I nodded.

“Yeah,” she said. “Myra the Bitch. She was assigned to tread where others had failed. Like teaching moi how to read. She kept drilling me, harassing me, forcing me to do stupid exercises that didn't do a fucking bit of good because the words stayed all scrambled. When I got something wrong, she'd clap her hands together and say no in this loud voice. Like training a dog. Telling me I was stupid, a moron, not paying attention—she used to clamp her hands on my face and force me to look into her eyes.”

She placed her hands on my cheeks and pressed them together, hard. Her palms were wet and her mouth was parted. She brought me forward and I thought she might kiss me. Instead, she said, “Pay attention! Listen, you moron!” in a grating voice.

I suppressed the impulse to twist free. That instant of confinement drove my empathy up another notch.

“Pay attention! Stop wandering, stupid! This is important! You need to learn this! If you don't pay attention, you can't learn!”

She squeezed harder. Let go. Smiled again. “Breath mints—that was her smell. Isn't it funny how you remember the smells? Mints, but her breath was still shitty. She thought she was hot. Kinda young, little miniskirts, big boobs . . . maybe she was letting Dr. B. slip it to her.”

“Why do you say that?”