Does he now believe, at least a little bit? Maybe, maybe not, but I sit up straighter. My parents have convicted me of being morally bankrupt. Thomas’s goal is to expose me as a fraud; humiliate then erase me. They’ve all chipped away at confidence that has always been precariously balanced. Over the past few days their doubts and accusations seeped into me like poison and it’s amplified my fears. One of my early therapists asked, point-blank, if I was a hoax. He said it would explain my anxieties. He told me the only remedy was to come clean, quit the business. Lucas fired him.

Now I stare out the window at the monochromatic gray sky and wonder if this next move, talking to Heidi, will help or hurt me. Time will tell. All I’m sure of is that I have to know. When we reach Lattimore Lane, it’s a narrow street of small homes, most the size of a double-wide trailer, painted in varying pastels, with white picket fences, flower boxes lined with early tulips, daffodils, and irises. Lawns are postage stamp–sized, well tended.

A group of six women, most with short gray hair, powerwalk down the street; laughter and quick conversation trails behind them. A man in a baseball hat and down jacket works clippers along the top of the box hedge that borders his driveway. Everyone is taking advantage of the cold but dry April day.

My nerves thrum. I reach behind the seat and Moose finds my hand, licks it. His unconditional love is my touchstone. “Good boy.” I scratch behind his ears, and his forehead scrunches with pleasure. Thomas has been quiet since our conversation about Madison. I glance over but the set of his jaw tells me he’s not ready to talk further about it.

There are moments like Madison’s during some of my shows. Things I can’t explain, voices, energies that come through the red door; that are real . . . at least to me. After a show it’s hard to sleep. I reconstruct every interaction, create delicate origami boats out of them, then rip holes in their hulls and watch them sink. It’s not difficult to tear what I do apart. But it’s the times when I can’t find any explanation for what happened, when a boat continues to float, that keep me going. Kelly and Rose’s reading was like that. So was Madison’s.

We pull into Heidi Hiddleston’s driveway. Thomas turns off the car, but keeps his hands perched over the steering wheel. What does it say about me that I’m attracted to his hands, despite everything he’s said to me; that he doesn’t believe; thinks I’m a swindler, a vampire, and deserve to be ruined? I don’t think it’s Stockholm syndrome anymore. Therapist three, or maybe it was four, delved into my dating life. She told me that keeping relationships surface-level or choosing one-night stands was a form of self-punishment. Maybe the attraction I now feel toward Thomas, a man who despises what I do, is a way to punish myself for the people I’ve hurt. But what about all the people I’ve helped?