“No. I can’t.”

Do it.

He had to make it stop. He had to had to had to had to.

And there was only one way.

Timothy picked up the letter opener.

“What are you doing?”

Now drive it into his neck.

“No,” Timothy yelled. “I won’t!”

“You won’t what?”

Lean across the desk, grab him by the collar to hold him in place, and then push it up into his throat. Just like the others.

No, no. There haven’t been others. You’re lying to me!

I’m not lying, Timothy. You know that—

“No!”

But yet he stood.

The psychiatrist eased back and reached for the button under his desk, the one he’d pressed eight months ago and Timothy knew was still there. He wasn’t stupid, after all. He wasn’t dangerous anymore. Not like he was back then.

He wasn’t—no, of course he wasn’t—or else he wouldn’t be here today; he would be back at the White Shirts Place with all those people who needed to be locked away, the ones who were a danger to themselves or others.

The crazy ones.

The unstable ones.

You’re unstable, Timothy. You’re crazy.

“No, I’m not!”

“You need to put that down, Timothy.”

But Timothy walked around the desk to where Dr. Percival was standing, and the doctor backed up even farther, until he was almost to the window.

Timothy felt his hands trembling. “You have to help me.”

“Timothy, get back.” The psychiatrist’s voice caught with fear. “Now!”

You have a vivid imagination. Overactive. There’s something wrong.

Beveled dreams.

Oh, beveled dreams.

Just like the others.

And then, Timothy Sabian shoved his psychiatrist fiercely against the wall and drove the letter opener into his own neck.

++++

You’re not supposed to survive something like that. Some people said he was lucky; others, that it was a miracle. Timothy just knew that he was in the hospital for a long time afterward. They kept his wrists and ankles strapped down so he couldn’t move, so he couldn’t hurt himself, and despite all the drugs they gave him and all the therapy they tried, the voices didn’t go away.

And neither did the bugs.

He knew that too.

2

Friday, November 2

New York City

Dusk

“C’mon,” my stepdaughter begged me. “Just once more around the pumpkins. Seriously. I’ve got this.”

It was our fourth visit to this parking lot since she’d turned sixteen a week and a half ago. Teaching a daughter to drive. A rite of passage for dads, and in this case, I was the closest thing she had to that.

“I need to get back, Tessa. I have to work tonight.”

“It’s that suicide, isn’t it?”

“I can’t tell you about the case.”

“Thought so.”