The cell is ten by twelve feet long. Daylight streams in from a three-inch sliver of plastic running vertically along one wall. There are no windows. The bed is iron, fastened to the floor. A desk and set of cubbies are fastened next to it. A sink and steel toilet are anchored by the wall to her right, angled to give its occupant some privacy from the hall.

The bed is made, the room immaculate. Michael Gabriel is sitting on the edge of a magazine-thin mattress. He stands, greeting her with a warm smile. “Good morning, Dominique. I see Dr. Foletta hasn’t arrived yet. How fortunate.”

“How do you know?”

“Because we’re speaking in my cell instead of the interview room. Please, sit on the bed, I’ll take the floor. Unless you prefer the toilet?”

She returns his smile, sitting on the edge of the mattress.

Mick leans back against the wall to her left. His black eyes twinkle beneath the fluorescent light.

He wastes no time interrogating her. “So, how was your weekend? Did you read my father’s journal?”

“I’m sorry. I only managed to make it through the first ten pages. I did manage to finish Rosenhan’s study.”

“On being sane in an insane place. Your thoughts, please?”

“I found it interesting, maybe even a bit surprising. His staff had quite the time sorting subjects from patients. Why did you have me read it?”

“Why do you think?” The ebony eyes glitter at her, exuding their animal-like intelligence.

“Obviously you want me to consider the possibility that you’re not insane.”

“Obviously.” He sits up, pulling his heels into a lotus position. “Let’s play a game, shall we? Let’s imagine it’s eleven years ago and you’re me, Michael Gabriel, son of the soon-to-be-infamous and quite dead archaeologist, Julius Gabriel. You’re standing backstage at Harvard University before a capacity crowd, listening to your father share a lifetime of information with some of the greatest minds in the scientific community. Your heart is pounding with adrenaline because you’ve worked side by side with your father from the day you were born, and you know how important this lecture is, not just to him but to the future of mankind. Ten minutes into his lecture, you see Julius’s longtime nemesis stroll across the stage to another podium. Pierre Borgia, the prodigal son of a political family dynasty, decides he’s going to challenge my father’s research right there, onstage. Turns out the whole lecture was just one big setup, arranged personally by Borgia to engage my father in a verbal assault designed to destroy his credibility. At least a dozen members of the audience were in on the joke. After ten minutes, Julius couldn’t even be heard over his colleagues’ laughter.”