Foletta pushes up from the desk and stands, the furniture creaking beneath his weight. “As director of this facility, it might be construed as a conflict of interest if I were the only one treating him.”

“But why not assign a full team to—”

“No.” Foletta’s patience is wearing thin. “Michael Gabriel is still my patient, and I’ll determine what avenue of therapy is best suited for him, not some board of trustees. What you’ll soon find out for yourself is that Mick’s a bit of a con artist—quite clever, very articulate, and very intelligent. His IQ’s close to 160.”

“That’s rather unusual for a schizophrenic, isn’t it?”

“Unusual, but not unheard of. My point is—he’d only toy with a social worker or rehab specialist. It takes someone with your training to see through his bullshit.”

“So when do I meet him?”

“Right now. He’s being brought to a seclusion room so I can observe your first encounter. I told him all about you this morning. He’s looking forward to speaking with you. Just be careful.”

The top four floors of the facility, referred to as units by the SFETC staff, each house forty-eight residents. Units are divided into north and south wings, each wing containing three pods. A pod consists of a small rec room with sofas and a television, centered around eight private dorm rooms. Each floor has its own security and nurses’ station. There are no windows.

Foletta and Dominique ride the staff elevator to the seventh floor. An African-American security guard is speaking to one of the nurses at the central station. The seclusion room is to his left.

The director acknowledges the guard, then introduces him to the new intern. Marvis Jones is in his late forties, with kind, brown eyes that exude confidence gained through experience. Dominique notices that the guard is unarmed. Foletta explains that no weapons are permitted on residential floors at any time.

Marvis leads them through the central station to a one-way security glass looking in on the seclusion room.

Michael Gabriel is sitting on the floor, leaning back against the far wall facing the window. He is wearing a white tee shirt and matching slacks, his physique appearing surprisingly fit, the upper body well-defined. He is tall, nearly six-four, 220 pounds. The hair is dark brown, a bit on the long side, curling at the fringes. The face is handsome and cleanly shaven. A three-inch scar stretches across the right side of the jawline, close to the ear. His eyes remain fixed on the floor.

“He’s cute.”

“So was Ted Bundy,” Foletta says. “I’ll be watching you from here. I’m sure Mick will be quite charming, wanting to impress you. When I think you’ve had enough, I’ll have the nurse come in and give him his medication.”

“Okay.” Her voice quavers. Relax, God dammit.

Foletta smiles. “Are you nervous?”

“No, just a little excited.”