“Well, then, you do have things to fear. Adeline, I don’t want to talk about the past. You started this game. I sure hope it wasn’t just for a trip down memory lane.”

“I need you to do as you promised; I need you to protect me.”

She looked at my cut-up face, and even I got the irony. But then she shrugged and went with a breezy, “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“And afterward . . .”

“You’ll give me the one thing I’ve always wanted,” my sister mused, and for once, I could catch the wistfulness in her voice.

This was the trick to managing my sister. You could want love and loyalty. But far more reliable was to appeal to her basic narcissism. Assure her there was something in it for herself. My sister, who after thirty years of institutionalization, would never make it in the real world.

“I’m going to take you to my place,” I informed her now.

“Is it safe?”

“As safe as anywhere.”

“But the cops’ll be watching.”

“Which is why I have a plan. Do you trust me, Shana?”

She smiled. “Do you trust me, little sister?”

“I’m bearing the marks to prove it.”

“Fair enough.” She rose to standing, tossing the coffee cup in the nearest garbage receptacle, then picking up the bag. “Lead on. It’s your rodeo.”

• • •

I TOOK HER TO BROOKS BROTHERS. Her first attempt at a disguise had given me the idea. Police might be suspicious if I returned to my condo with a female but not of a leading psychiatrist returning with a professionally attired gentleman. Maybe a colleague. A boyfriend. Or my own therapist. The possibilities were endless, and none of them included my recently escaped sister.

Shana was self-conscious in the store. And she couldn’t stop touching. The shirts, the ties, the suits, at one point, the faux-painted wall. She had a wide-eyed quality about her, like a country hick recently arrived in the big city.

I picked out a classic dark-gray suit, while the salesman followed in our wake, eyeing Shana’s wandering fingers anxiously, then my ravaged face and bandaged hand with growing concern. At last, I collected my sister, shoving her and the clothes into a dressing room.

“Holy shit,” she exclaimed thirty seconds later.

“It doesn’t fit?”

“Fit? Have you seen these prices?”

“Come, now, darling.” I overemphasized the word, given the hovering sales clerk. “Quality costs, but you’re worth it. Now, try it on!”

Shana emerged nearly ten minutes later. She was struggling with buttons, struggling with the tie. She looked like someone more at war with her wardrobe than at home in her clothes. But I buttoned her up, smoothed her out, then got her turned in front of the mirror.