Hauser looked down at his hand. Stopped twisting. “This isn’t about her.”

“My point.”

“You don’t have a point,” he said. “You owe me. If I wanted to hurt you, I could’ve used a club or something. All I did was sucker punch you with my bare hand. Same way you did me. I hurt my knuckles doing it. I’m not a violent person, all I want is justice.”

“Kicked me in the ribs, “ I said, sounding like a petulant child.

“When you punched me at that restaurant, you escalated the level of violence. All I wanted to do was talk rationally. Blame yourself.”

“You scared me at the restaurant,” I said.

That brought a smile to his lips. “Are you scared now?”

“Yeah.”

“Then harness the fear— sublimate. Start writing and we can all go home.”

I knew he was lying but I believed him. Tried another smile.

He stared past me.

Allison glanced at her purse. Blinked several times.

I said, “How ’bout I start like this: My name is Alex Demlaware, I’m a crinical psychologist licensed by the state of California, my license number is 45...”

Droning on. Hauser followed with choppy movements of his head. Warming to the recitation because it was everything he wanted to hear.

“Fine. Write.”

I leaned over the desk, shielding his view of my right hand with my left arm. Lowering the nib of the pen to just above the paper, I made writing motions.

“Oops,” I said. “Out of ink.”

“Bullshit, don’t try— ”

I held up the pen. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

Hauser thought. The knife drifted. “Get another one out of the drawer. Don’t agitate me.”

I struggled to my feet, holding the chair for support. “Should I lean over the desk or go around?”

“Go around. That way.” Pointing to the right.

Circling toward the front of the desk, I grazed Allison’s purse with my sleeve. Opened the drawer, took out several pens, rested for breath. No act; my ribs felt like bonemeal.

On the return trip, I touched the purse again, hazarded a look.

Unzipped. Allison’s bad habit. I’d given up lecturing to her about it.

I pretended to bang my knee against the desk corner. Cried out in pain and dropped the pens.

“Idiot!”

“My balance is off. I think you knocked something loose.”

“Bullshit, I didn’t hit you that hard.”

“I passed out. Maybe I’ve got a concussion.”

“Your head was stationary and if you had a rudimentary knowledge of neuropsych you’d know that severe concussions result most often from two objects in motion colliding.”

I looked at the carpet.

“Pick them up!”

I bent, collected the pens. Straightened and made my way back as Hauser watched.

The knife had shifted a few inches from Allison’s throat but his right hand kept a firm hold on her hair.