The six of them all stood there for a moment, as though both couples had brought surrogates who would duel it out. Myron tried to get a bead on Nancy and Hunter. He came up only with nervous. Mr. Folk Festival, on the other hand, seemed in his element. He spoke first.

“Why don’t we all have a seat?” he said.

“Who the hell are you?” Chick asked.

He turned his cringingly gentle smile toward Chick. “I’m Lionel.”

Chick looked at Myron, then at his wife, then at the Moores. “Where’s Patrick?”

“He’s upstairs,” Lionel said.

“So when can we see him?”

“In a bit,” Lionel said. “Why don’t we all just sit down in the living room, where we can be more comfortable?”

“Hey, Lionel?” Chick said.

“Yes?”

“Do we look like we’re in the mood to be comfortable?”

Lionel nodded in the most understanding, compassionate, phony way possible. “Point taken, Chick. Is it okay if I call you Chick?”

Chick looked at Myron and Brooke as though to say, What the eff?

Brooke stepped toward Nancy. “What’s going on here, Nancy? Who is this guy?”

Nancy looked helpless, but Lionel stepped between them.

“My name is Lionel Stanton,” he said. “I’m a doctor looking after Patrick.”

“What kind of doctor?” Chick asked.

“I’m a psychiatrist.”

Uh-oh. Myron didn’t like where this was headed.

Nancy Moore took Brooke’s hand. “We want to help.”

“Of course we do,” Hunter added. He swayed a little bit, and Myron wondered whether he was sober.

Chick said, “Why do I think I hear a ‘but’ coming?”

“No ‘but,’” Lionel said. And then: “I just need you to understand. Patrick has been through a tremendous ordeal.”

“Really?” Chick said, his voice thick with sarcasm. “We wouldn’t know anything about that, would we?”

“Chick.” It was Brooke. She shook her head for him to stop. “Go on, Doctor.”

“I could dance around this for a bit,” Lionel said, “but let me just tell you this right from the get-go. No stalling. No fancy words. No excuses. Just the flat-out truth.”

Oh boy, Myron thought.

“At this juncture, Patrick can’t help you.”

Chick opened his mouth, but Brooke silenced him with a wave. “What do you mean, he can’t help us?”

“I understand that last night Mrs. Moore suggested you meet at your house.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“I overruled that decision. That’s why you’re here. To bring Patrick back to the place where it all began, the scene of the crime, if you will—it could be devastating to his already fragile psyche. Patrick is nearly catatonic. When he does speak, it is to say he’s hungry or thirsty, and even that only occurs when he’s prompted.”

Myron spoke for the first time. “Have you asked him about Rhys?”

“Of course,” Lionel said.

Brooke: “And?”

Lionel again gave her the most understanding, compassionate, phony expression possible. “He can’t tell us anything about your son. I’m sorry.”

“That’s BS,” Chick said.

Nancy stepped toward Brooke. “We’re trying our best,” she said.