Bora tosses an acidic sideways glance in his direction. I know things about her, he says. I know her real name, yes? You didn’t think Tiffany Johnson was her real name? And I know she ran away and took her girl with her. What I don’t know is where she went. And I was thinking, Doctor, that maybe you could help me, yes? We both have the same interest, to see her safe. You don’t want her to be a criminal, a fugitive, a kidnapper, yes? I thought maybe she contacted you. Maybe she said something . . .

She didn’t say anything, the psychologist says. His voice acquires a slight pressed tremor and his stomach churns. I’m hearing about it for the first time here, from you.

Yes, yes. I thought you would say that; but you see, it’s hard for me to know if you are telling the truth here. From the beginning you were—how we say?—hostile; I came to you politely, like a businessman, and you answer—how we say?—not polite. I don’t know. I begin to think . . .

Hey, Professor, a loud baritone voice rumbles from the stairs. Bora stops and turns. Heavy steps are heard and then Eric’s head pokes in, smiling. He steps forward and takes his thermos out of his book bag. Black coffee, like you wanted, Professor. He blinks slyly.

What? Oh, yes, of course, thanks. Did you put sugar in?

Two, as you like.

Eric turns to dig into his bag: I also wanted to use this opportunity to discuss some points in this chapter that we’re reading. He turns, looks at Bora and his bruiser. I mean, if, if you’re not busy . . .

No, no, they just stopped by for a moment. We just finished here. They’re on their way out. Please have a seat. He motions to the chair.

Thanks for coming, he turns to Bora, and thanks for the information. We’ll be in touch.

Bora looks at him for a moment, and then at the large youngster, measuring him up and down, like an expert tailor.

Yes, he says quietly, yes, we will be in touch. He turns to leave and then at the door he stops, turns around: I asked you to help her. Do you think you helped her? And then he walks out.

The psychologist releases a heavy sigh. His heart, he notices, is beating hard and fast in his chest. His skin is sweaty under his shirt.

Everything OK, Professor? Eric asks.

OK, yes, the psychologist mumbles distractedly. What are you doing here?

I passed by and I saw these two parking in front of the building and walking in. They didn’t look right.

Right?