He sat down next to the chaise in the chair she usually used as a therapist. It was strange having him there, as if he were the doctor and she were the patient. Somehow, it took away her power, and she didn’t like it. She got up. She switched off the music and video. The treatment room, with its sound-baffled walls, was as silent as a crypt.

“Do you think the person who’s doing this is one of your patients?” Jason asked.

“I don’t know. The fact that he seems to be manipulating their behavior with some kind of hypnotic programming makes me think he must have seen my techniques up close, but he could have simply read up on me in the psychology journals, too. A lot of people think I’m evil. They’d love to hurt me.”

“Don’t exaggerate, Frankie.”

“I’m not. I don’t show you the mail I get.”

She’d testified in many lawsuits about the unreliability of recovered memories, even among people who believed they were victims of abuse. She’d also testified in criminal court about the problems of eyewitness identification, and thanks to her, accused murderers had been acquitted. She’d made a lot of money as an expert witness, and she’d made a lot of enemies, too. Nothing she said in court was false, but that didn’t matter to people who felt robbed of justice.

“If it’s a patient, you know who’s got my vote,” Jason said.

She did. “Darren Newman?”

“That’s right.”

Frankie walked to her bookshelves and ran a hand along the spines of the hardcovers. She looked back at the empty chaise. It was easy to picture Darren Newman there, talking about his Midwest childhood. Almost dying in a collapsed snow fort. Being lured into bed by his math teacher. He was singularly handsome and charming, a man who was nearly impossible to resist. She’d never met a better liar.

“Why would Darren do that?” she asked, her voice soft. “He already got what he wanted. He fooled me. He’s free because of me. And Merrilyn Somers is dead.”

“Why does a sociopath do anything? Look at this guy’s behavior. The taunting. The secret identity. The game playing. The risk taking. That’s exactly who Darren is.”

He was right, but she knew there was an extra reason why Jason believed in Darren Newman’s guilt. He blamed him for the state of their marriage, and he wasn’t entirely wrong. The revelations about Darren Newman—and the murder of Merrilyn Somers—had shaken Frankie to her core. She’d grown distracted. Out of touch. Withdrawn. She’d become emotionally unreachable, and the emptiness had made its way into their bedroom. They’d gone months without making love.