“I’m sorry.”

“No prob. Are you all right?”

“Yeah …” I rubbed my eyes. Tears streamed down my cheeks. “Sorry.”

“Stop apologizing. Do you remember what you were dreaming?”

“I was … being beaten. I was defending myself. Probably why I was moving my arms.” He was silent. I said, “Sorry.”

“Forget it!” A pause. “Was it me?”

I thought, then shook my head, then grasped that he probably couldn’t see me. “No.” I wiped my eyes. “It was someone Indian. Not Devek … but someone.”

He said, “I realize I’m not your favorite person right now, but if you want a little physical comfort, I’m here.”

I didn’t answer him.

He added, “I don’t mean sex, Terry. Just … comfort.”

I bit my lip and scrunched my eyes to stop crying. I didn’t move. I couldn’t move.

He hesitated, then he came to me, until my back was tucked against his chest. He wrapped me with his limbs. He had shaven. He smelled good. He kissed the back of my neck. It was like stepping into a warm bath. “You’re safe, angel. No one’s going to hurt you. Not as long as I’m around. I will protect you with everything in my power, including my life.”

“Thank you.” I wiped my cheeks. Despite my antipathy toward him, the solace was reassuring. “Juleen too?”

“Of course Juleen too.”

I didn’t talk for a moment. Then I said, “Do you like her?”

“What?”

“Juleen … Do you like her?”

He paused, then said, “I think she’s a good kid.”

“Thank you.” But he hadn’t answered the question. “Do you like her?”

He exhaled. “What I feel is irrelevant, baby doll. She’s important to you so she’s important to me.”

“So, you don’t like her?”

“Teresa, I don’t like anyone. On the other hand, I don’t dislike anyone. To me, people are just … tools. They help me get what I want, and if they don’t help me, they’re useless and I throw them away in my mental trash can. Like Mike Badger. I know he’s an asshole, but he has things that I want, so I’m nice to him. He thinks we’re friends.” A derisive chuckle. “When I get what I want out of him, he’s history. Same with my employees. They are constantly telling me their problems. I listen like any good therapist, because it makes them feel better, and when they feel better, they work better. I don’t give a shit if their mothers are dying of cancer or their kids are sick. While they’re talking to me, I nod sympathetically. But in my head, my brain’s going: ‘What’s this gonna cost me?’”

I didn’t say anything. Then I said, “What about the Deckers? Are they just tools?”