“Wow.” Tim’s gaze falls to the floor.

“Listen,” I say. “This is all wrong.”

I hear his breath catch. “Oh?”

I smile. “Yeah. I’m the one who should be buying today.”

The closest bar is a Mexican place three minutes away. I turn up my collar against the bracing cold as we climb into the car under an overcast sky. The drive is made in silence, and we don’t talk again until we’re seated at a table with menus in hand. There’s no need to consult with Tim before ordering two margaritas and a platter of pork tacos to share. When I turn over the past three months in my mind, all the time we’ve already spent together, I realize I know him better than I thought.

The drink numbs my throat like a balm as Tim throws himself into small talk with impressive zeal. I appreciate the effort; after all the talking I’ve just done, I could use a break from the sound of my own damn voice.

“So,” he says after a while, when we’ve both paused to sip at our drinks. Tim seems suddenly nervous; under the lip of the table he jiggles his knee. “I thought about what you told me.”

“What I told you?”

“About Bram.”

“Oh.” I set down my drink too hard. The glass strikes the tabletop with a clink.

“Everything you said that day about the kidnapping, and letting him go. He’s still out there,” Tim says. “How do you know he’s not coming back for you? What I’m saying is, I’m worried. Moving up here . . . I’m not sure it’s enough.”

God, what I’d give to be able to tell you everything.

“You said the police figured out who he was,” Tim goes on. “A custodian in the building. So why haven’t they found him?”

“He changed his name? It’s not that hard. He’s done it before.”

“What about his ties to Swanton? Someone must have followed that lead. If he was so obsessed with the place that he risked giving himself away by telling those women where he was really from, maybe he went back there. Has anyone combed the town to see if they could figure out who Bram really is?”

I shrug. Say nothing.

Tim casts a glance around the bar. If he’s picturing me sitting in a place just like it, talking to a killer, he doesn’t let on. “I’ve been thinking about this a lot, actually,” he says. “Everything you’ve been through. Tell me something. How much did Carson explain to you about Stockholm syndrome?” Folding his hands, he leans closer. The act reminds me of the day I met Carson, when he was still just a harmless shrink. “What I’m asking,” says Tim, “is how much did you know about that condition before you went to see him?”

“Doesn’t everyone know about Stockholm syndrome?”

“The concept? Sure. But the symptoms, the circumstances surrounding it, the particulars about onset and—”

“You’d make a great therapist,” I say.