The young detective needed to learn the meaning of discipline, but mostly Teresa had wanted to get him out of her sight for a few hours. She’d seen something flash across his face, something that had alarmed her: he had looked at her as if he could sense her fear.

It was just an isolated episode, she kept telling herself. It didn’t mean anything.

But for a moment the night before she hadn’t been able to recall the names of everyday objects, and even though she’d recovered soon enough, she had still felt lost for several hours afterwards, as if she’d just emerged from inside a tornado. It had never happened to her before, and now she worried that it might be the first of many episodes to come.

She hadn’t told anyone. Confiding in other people was just not something she did, but now she found herself wondering how much longer she would be able to provide for herself. It was her worst nightmare, the idea that she might become dependent on somebody else.

Banishing those ominous thoughts from her head, she took the last few steps in the dark and found herself in Purgatory. Its sole other occupant was at the opposite end of the room, sitting at a desk worn with use. His face was lit only by the bluish light of a computer screen.

“You’ll ruin your eyes,” she told him.

Marini didn’t look up. On the desk in front of him, Teresa placed the report he’d sent her just before dawn, and which she’d printed out and covered in corrections.

The inspector gave it a brief glance. “I thought you’d flushed it down the toilet?” he said.

Teresa lowered herself into a chair across from him.

“You didn’t do a very good job with it. It would have been a lie to tell you otherwise.”

He grimaced.

“I’m not looking for empty praise.”

“Then what have you come looking for, all the way here?”

Marini didn’t respond.

Teresa didn’t stop.

“At first I thought you must have run away from some kind of romantic debacle,” she said. “But I was wrong, wasn’t I? Your perfectionism, and how desperately you seem to crave my approval, make me think there is a parent involved—too interfering, too demanding, even now that you’re a grown man. An overbearing presence. Your father, perhaps?”

“I didn’t know you had studied psychology.”

“No need for any of that to work you out.”

He finally looked at her. There was a flush of anger on his cheeks, but also a trace of resignation, which mollified her.

“Come on, it’s not the end of the world,” she said encouragingly.

“Don’t tell me it could be worse. That would be so predictable. I’d have to revise my opinion of you.”