Rosenberg put her hand on his and looked him in the eye. “There will always be serial killers,” she said. “There will always be bears in the woods.” She gave his hand a squeeze. “Bad things happen. People die.”

Archie couldn’t concentrate. The shouting from across the hall was getting louder. A woman’s voice, but Archie couldn’t make out whose.

He wondered what was on Animal Planet right now.

Rosenberg sat staring at him. Waiting. That’s what being on the psych ward was like, everyone watching you all the time waiting for you to twitch or scream or say you were better, thanks for everything.

Archie had been good at waiting. It was a useful skill when you were interviewing witnesses. Gentle silence. Almost everyone felt the need to fill it, and that’s when the details surfaced. People would tell you anything, just to avoid sitting quietly.

But Archie still wasn’t used to being the one expected to do the talking. He pulled his hand out from under hers. “Just ask the questions,” he said. The questions, and he could go. The sessions with Rosenberg always ended with the same three questions. Anything changed since yesterday? Rate your mood. Any immediate concerns?

“If you get out of here,” Rosenberg said, “you can still have a life.”

What life? He’d driven his family away. His job was tenuous. He had nowhere to live. The only thing he had was Gretchen.

He’d have to leave, of course. He knew that. But not yet.

He was not ready to leave yet.

He had one card and he decided to play it. He looked her in the eye. “I’m still a danger to myself,” he said. He knew that as long as he said it, they couldn’t force him out. But for the first time in two months, it was a lie. He didn’t want to die. The deal with Gretchen was off. She’d threatened to kill again if he killed himself, and now she’d started to kill again anyway. He was free to do it, with only his own blood on his hands.

And he didn’t want to die.

He wanted to kill her. He wanted to kill Gretchen. That’s why he had to stay inside. Because if he let himself back into the world, he would hunt her down and he would hurt her.

Rosenberg frowned and her eyebrows knitted. “At some point you’re going to have to forgive yourself.”

Forgive himself. Right. Archie rubbed the back of his neck with one hand and allowed himself a wry chuckle. “Sarah,” he said. “I had sex with a serial killer.”

Rosenberg didn’t miss a beat. “Which part do you hate yourself for more?” she asked.

She waited.

But the silent treatment didn’t work.

There was too much shouting from across the hall.

Archie looked up toward the door.

“They can handle it,” Rosenberg said.

A crashing sound echoed through the walls. They both knew what it was. A plastic chair hitting shatterproof glass.