Before attacking the deep insecurity that underlay all this, Jenna was attempting to deal with Barbara’s chemical dependencies, which not only interfered with other therapeutic efforts but were potentially life-threatening.

The final Wednesday-afternoon patient, Toni Ferrante, was thirty-five, married for fifteen years, the mother of two sons a bit older than Karim. She was also a lesbian, a fact she had finally admitted to herself only a year earlier. The problem was that she could not admit it to her husband, her boys, or—especially—her parents. From Jenna’s point of view, Toni was a difficult patient simply because there was nothing wrong with her.

Unlike Colleen and Barbara, she was not in the grip of some disorder. In coming to a psychologist, all she was seeking was a confessor who would not condemn her while she struggled to choose between living the truth and living a lie. It was a choice Jenna understood only too well, and often she felt like a hypocrite, even a charlatan, presuming to help others face up to their problems while she hid from hers.

That very afternoon, at the end of their session, Toni had stepped across the patient-therapist boundary. “Hey, Jenna, you know, I saw your book in the store. How come you don’t have a picture of yourself on it?”

“Well, it started out as a scholarly work, and they often don’t have author photos.”

That was true—as far as it went. But something skeptical in Toni’s expression made Jenna go farther. “Then, too,” she said, stepping over the boundary herself, “my father was a strict Muslim who disapproved of photography. I suppose I never really overcame his judgment.”

Toni grinned. “Still trying to win old Dad’s heart, huh? I can dig that.”

In truth, Jenna had refused repeated requests from the publisher for a photo; it was just too risky.

Living a lie.

Toni left. It was four o’clock. Karim would be at soccer practice—he showed surprising skill at the game—for another hour. Jenna looked at the paperwork that needed doing; soon, she was going to have to hire a secretary. She looked at the pile of forms, bills, and letters again, and decided on a cup of tea at the Village Greenery instead.

On the way, she stopped at a newsstand for the Star and the National Enquirer. A man buying a Boston Globe looked at her purchases with amused disdain. She was accustomed to the reaction, but she had learned that the tabloids, travesties of journalism though they might be, were the most likely source of news about her brother.

At the coffee shop, a hand reached out to open the door for her: the man with the Globe. A few years earlier, she might have panicked. Now she merely nodded thanks. The man took a table and was soon absorbed in his paper.

Not a spy, not a hunter—just another tired professional, maybe even a shrink, off work a bit early.