“Thanks,” Gabriel said. “We’ll keep out of your lingerie drawer. I’d also like to go into your bank records and track the days leading up to and after Wilcox’s arrival.”

“Sure. I’d like to know where I was, too.”

Mercedes said, “We’ll tell you whatever we find out.”

“What about my missing time? I mean, in addition to the two years I’ve lost.”

There was a pause on the line and then Mercedes spoke, “Lily advises, and we all agree, that you need to recover your memory ‘organically’ to prevent the possibility of false memories.”

She was keeping something from me, but I didn’t seem to care.

Mercedes said, “Okay, I’ve got all your account info from the last time I upgraded your laptop, and I’ll give Gabriel the key to your place.”

“Sure, whatever,” I said. “Where’s my laptop?”

“Don’t you have a therapy session?” Mercedes said. “The faster you recover, the better chance of us finding Wilcox’s killer.”

I said good-bye to my friend, and Oswald put the call on hold and told me that Lily was waiting for me in a small parlor down the hall.

I went past the staircase and saw an expansive family room through one doorway.

The parlor, on the other side of the hall, was a cozy room lined with bookshelves with a plum-colored velvet sofa. I’d look wonderfully melancholic reclining on this sofa while I mused about the intricate workings of my psyche.

Lily was sitting at a delicate writing table, working at her laptop. She looked up as I came in. “Hi, Milagro. Please take a seat.” She reached for a notepad and a ballpoint pen.

When I sat across from her, she said, “Let’s start off with a few word associations.”

“Fantastic. I’m all about the words. I like them whether they’re mono- or multisyllabic. I like onomatopoeia and foreign words and expressions. I like funny words like ‘bric-a-brac’ and ‘noodle’ and ‘persnickety.’”

“Good. Just say the first thing that comes into your mind without thinking,” she said. “Hot.”

“Chocolate.”

“Cold.”

“Hands, warm heart.”

“Cat.”

“Pickles.”

She paused before writing down my answer and then said, “Tree.”

“Prune. The verb, not the fruit.”

“Just one word is fine, Milagro. Black.”

“Bra.”

“Red,” she said.

“Wine.”

“Blood.”

I wondered if she knew that I snacked on the steaks and said, “Blue.”

“Blue?”

“Blue-bloods. Fancy-pants, hoity-toity.”

“Oh.” Lily wrote for a few seconds. “Knife.”

An image flashed through my mind of a knife slipping through flesh, crimson fluid welling in the cut, a man’s hot mouth hungry for my flesh, but I answered, “Spork.”

Lily looked confused, so I said, “It’s the combination of a fork and a spoon, a spork. Ah, the elusive charm of the spork!”