She’d arrived precisely on time, driving a small gray Mercedes with black windows and squeaky brakes. Blanche and I greeted her at the door. Prema stooped to pet. “Hello again, Princess.” She did the usual quick-check of the living room, offered the comment I get all the time:

“Nice place, Dr. Delaware. Kind of hidden away.”

“Thanks. This way.”

When we arrived in the office, Blanche waddled to Prema’s feet and sat down.

“Is she a therapy dog?”

“She can be,” I said. “But she has no problem waiting outdoors.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t do that to her—c’mon, baby, you join us.”

She sank into the couch, turned small, the way skinny, high-waisted people do. Leaning to scratch behind Blanche’s ear, she said, “I don’t want to break any rules, here, but is it okay if she sits up here with me?”

I clicked my tongue. Blanche jumped up on the couch, settled in close.

Prema Moon said, “Well, that was pretty nimble.”

I sat back and waited, the calm, patient therapist. Wondered if someone with her training would see through the act.

I’d had a restless night, waking up four times with a pounding head and a racing mind. Wondering if I could trust my own judgment.

Had I dragged Milo’s case into a bog destined to sink it?

How would I tell Prema I’d stalked her without scaring her out of the office?

At five a.m., I’d crawled out of bed, padded to my office, scrawled notes.

I returned an hour later. Gobbledygook.

However it shook out, Prema passing through my doorway bought her insurance: From now on I was bound by confidentiality, maybe useless to Milo.

A logistical mess; I hadn’t expected it to turn out this way. Had been aiming for a chance to observe the kids. Hadn’t counted on Prema being in the van.

Not completely true.

The slim chance the putative Evil Queen might materialize had led me to bring Blanche and the psych journal, a pair of perfect lures.

Even with that, I’d expected small talk at best. Some kind of observational insight I could bring back to Milo.

My clever little plan had worked too well.

I’d been wrong about so much.

Prema Moon kept massaging Blanche. Checked out the prints on the wall. Put on dorky glasses and squinted at my diplomas, returned the specs to her macramé bag.

“Nice,” she said. “The feeling, here. What you imagine a therapist office is like. Should be like. The other one—the doctor I went to instead of you—that was a cold space. Just screamed I don’t care about people. Cold and expensive—what’s your fee, by the way?”

“Three hundred dollars for forty-five minutes.”

“Compared with her, you’re a bargain.” She counted out cash, placed the bills on a side table. “This place talks softly. Earnestly.”