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“She’s had a very traditional upbringing,” I said. “Her folks are religious. She has seven siblings to lean on.”

“She has a wire mother.”

I sat back, considering my tea. The study she referred to involved removing newborn monkeys from their mothers and putting them in the arms of a chicken-wire figure that dispensed milk. “Are you referring to the Harry Harlow experiments?”

“I’m sure I don’t remember the name of the doctor. But I saw a film of monkeys clutching a wire mother and biting each other. Almost all of them, in one way or another, was a sexual deviant. It was hard to watch.”

“That study showed that a newborn without attachment to an adult has a higher chance of being impulsive and violent,” I said. The experiments had been inhumane and horrifying. Human babies rarely faced that level of distance from all adult love. But the point had been made that a wire mother permanently damaged children. “And what’s your theory on what this has to do with Fiona?” I hid the stress in my voice. I’d always seen Fiona as someone with solvable problems. Debbie apparently thought differently.

She folded her hands in her lap, calmly considering me. “The babies had no warm mother, but they were given every single other comfort they needed. Even more than they needed. What happens when the child of a wire mother is given every indulgence, and then has to deal with the slightest pain? Does the pain break them? Or are they already broken from the pleasure?”

I leaned toward the railing and looked over the city. The man with the sword had stopped his dance. He sat cross-legged, facing the same direction I was, with his hands out in supplication.

“When she looks out into the world, she sees only herself,” Debbie continued. “She has a large family with wire parents. Those children are a brood of rich orphans. The fact that she can eke out as much humanity as she does is beautiful to me.”

I felt the friction of my middle finger on my upper lip before I even realized I was rubbing it. I shifted my hand down. That habit triggered my mind’s gears, no matter how much I didn’t like it. Her parents still hadn’t visited to tell her about her brother. They were leaving it to the children to sort out amongst themselves. Had it always been that way? Had something else broken her? Did there need to be more?

Everyone had a bucket that represented their capacity for pain. Some buckets were bigger than others, and everyone maintained the overflow differently. Did it matter that Fiona’s bucket had been filled slowly, drip by drip, over years, if she hadn’t been given the tools to manage the runoff?

“People are terribly complex in their simplicity.” My general statement wouldn’t betray any confidences, but it was possibly that simple. Or not. I had enough to chew on.

“I’m glad you came by.” Debbie placed her cup carefully back on the tray. “It was nice to meet the man who is helping Fiona. She’s a good person with a good heart.”

I stood. “Nice to meet you as well.”

We shook hands, and I left. I dropped the bag of clothes on the passenger seat, but I was halfway down the hill when I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to know what she’d packed, what she expected Fiona to wear.

The zipper on the bag screeched when I opened it. The shoes were in a separate drawstring bag. They were white sneakers with Velcro, plain and simple. Was it wrong that I found them so sexual in their pure plainness? The lack of sensuality, the creases at the backs where they’d been smashed. The way the tongues were off kilter. The back heel of the left shoe was more worn than the right. She favored her left foot. It was the sexiest thing I’d ever seen.

I was having intimate feelings for a patient by way of a pair of running shoes.

I jammed them back in the bag without looking at the clothes and zipped it up, declaring to myself that I’d never look at them again. But it wasn’t the sneakers that were the problem. It was me. I was the problem.

FIONA

Jonathan seemed obsessed with physical activity. He wasn’t at the ping-pong table when I went looking for him after dinner, but he was on the basketball court under the lights. His motions were much the same as they’d been with the paddle: dribble twice, then a
whoosh
into the net. He caught the ball and started over. The grounds were populated with all kinds of psychos huddling in little groups under the lights and in the dark corners of night. None went near Jonathan. He was a red menace all his own. Mister Joker. Mister Tons-of-Buds.

I leaned on the pole that held the hoop. “Making friends, I see.”

“I have you, Fee.”
Swoosh.
“I don’t need friends.” He smiled.

I hadn’t expected any kind of cheer from him. “Who removed the stick from your ass?”

“Guy can’t catch a break. What am I supposed to do? Have another heart attack?” He took his shot. “And how are you doing? Try to attack your therapist lately?”

“Not lately, fucktard.”

He passed me the ball, hard. It took the wind out of me, but I caught it.

“Twenty-four hours of self-control,” he said. “A personal best for you.”

Jonathan was back. The guy who couldn’t stand me, who ribbed, chided, and pushed my buttons until I either stormed off or slapped him.

“And you?” I said, passing it back as hard as I could.

He caught it without a problem and dribbled.

“You aren’t some great example of self-control. If I want that, I’m looking at Theresa.”

“She’s gonna bust one day.”
Swoosh.
“Leave a bunch of lace and pearls all over the place.” He made an exploding gesture with his hands. “Boom.”

I caught the ball on its way down. “She said she’s sorry she got mad at you, by the way.” I tossed it to him. “She called you names, apparently.”

“I don’t blame her. But yeah, she lost it. From now on, I’ll be a model of having my shit together. Anything I can control, I will. Done. And sorry, Fee, but I’m staying away from you. You’re a bad influence. Staying away from Dad too. He’s worse. He makes me want to break his face.” He took his shot and missed. Retrieving the ball, he said, “Control. Everything in my line of sight.”

“You think it’s so easy?”

“Yeah, I do. It’s a choice. I can see crazy coming now. You. Then Rachel. Then me. I know the signs now. I got it.”
Bang.
The ball went off the rim. “I’m watching Theresa next. Margie’s on her way. We’ll all be here at some point until we learn.”

I caught his ball mid-bounce. “You’re delusional.”

“You know who my girlfriend was obsessed with before she died?”

“Jesus?” I took a shot and,
bang
, missed. I was never much of an athlete.

“You.” He snapped the ball out of the air. “Talk about delusional. She thought you were the shit. Thought you had the life.”

“Why?” That knowledge poked me in a weird place. I was many things, but admirable wasn’t even on the list. Yet, a swell of unexplained intimacy throbbed around the admiration when I was sure I’d never met Rachel at all.

He bounced his ball but didn’t take the shot. “She was a normal, regular girl. Bad family, but otherwise, she was real. The way we live was like a fairytale to her.” He laughed and bounced the ball until it flew over his head. He caught it and dribbled again. “When she saw how you lived, the way you spend money, she admired it. I should have caught it then. I think what bothered me the most when I heard about her and Dad was that I hadn’t seen it. How did that shit slip under my radar? I don’t like being blind. I felt like I got it in the back of the head with a baseball bat. Then, the party, and I wake up, and she’s gone.” He took a shot.
Swoosh.
“She was real, and then… not.”

“Because she wanted to be us.”

“Crazy fucking world,” he said, passing me the ball.

I stood in front of the net and tossed the ball up. By some miracle of chance and physics, it went
swoosh
.

“Nice shot.” The male voice came from my left.

I turned to find Warren Chilton palming the ball I’d let fly.

“Drazen,” he said, flipping Jonathan the ball.

“Hey,” Jonathan said back.

I was sure he was trying to place Warren’s face. Warren was about seven or eight years older, but there was a good chance they’d pulled smoke from the same bong, somewhere. Jonathan took his shot, missing because he seemed cautious in a way he hadn’t before. He passed it back to Warren.

“Where have you been?” I asked, returning to the pole as Warren jumped for the hoop and missed.
Bang.

“I had a dispensation to go to my sister’s wedding. Got the ankle bracelet off with a blowtorch and bolted.” He lifted his pant leg, revealing a red, raw burn wound.

“Wow, dude.” Jonathan dribbled, staring at Warren’s ankle. “Where’d you go?”

“Stole my dad’s car and went up to Santa Barbara.”

“Cool.” He flicked the ball to Warren, who missed the net again. I couldn’t believe Jonathan would be impressed with the high drama, but he was sixteen.

“Wasn’t even a blip on TMZ. You guys are still eating up all the bandwidth.”

Jonathan laughed as his rebounded Warren’s miss. Warren fouled Jonathan and bounced into me, shoving a little baggie of blue oval pills into my hand. I tucked them into my waistband as he winked at me.

“What’s on the news about us?” Jonathan said as he passed to Warren. “Anything that’ll get me laid when I get out?”

I glanced around to see if anyone had seen me tuck away the baggie.

“Fiona,” Frances called to me.

I turned. She was standing next to Elliot. They waved me over.

Shit.

ELLIOT

I
 could see she was on her best behavior, hands in her lap, sentences short and spoken softly. Her effort to not come back at us appeared monumental, and I was proud of her for keeping it together in front of Frances and sympathetic to how hard it was to seem awake when saying “yes” and “no” when she wanted to say so much more.

“Do you understand the rules for tomorrow’s visit?” Frances asked. She spoke to her peers with bite and wit, but she spoke to patients as if they were children.

“Yes,” Fiona said, looking each of us in the eyes from across the conference room table, the same table we’d betrayed her at two weeks earlier. “One hour. Just talking. No going outside the garden area. You’ll have a guy on us the whole time.”

“Miss Drazen,” Frances said, softening her voice slightly, “I hope you don’t feel persecuted. We’re trying to make sure this is a safe visit. This man is the reason you’re here, for better or worse. There is violence in your past together, so we have to be careful for your good and the good of the other residents.”

“I get it.”

“It’s only Doctor Chapman’s word that makes this possible.”

She glanced at me. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” I lied.

***

Jana was cleaning up the dishes when I got home.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hey.” She was mad.

I was far later than I should have been, but I’d needed to update Frances on Deacon, and then she insisted on a conversation with Fiona. The explanation was on the tip of my tongue, but I bit it back. I counted the dishes. “Who was here?”

“I had Mary come to talk to you about the job. I figured I’d kill two birds with one stone. But you didn’t show up, so…” She shrugged and picked up her wine glass.

“We’re meeting tomorrow. You can’t dump an interview on me twelve hours early.”

“If you were serious in general, you would have been here, home with me. But now you look unreliable, and I’m embarrassed.”

“That’s unfair,” I said.

“What were you doing?”

“Working.”

“Is there someone else?”

“What?”

“Are. You. Fucking. Someone. Else?” She said every word slowly. She’d had a glass too many, making her words wet and thick with emotion.

I crossed the room in two steps and removed the glass from her hand before it reached her lips. I pushed her up against the refrigerator and held her by her sternum. With my other hand, I reached up her skirt.

“Why?” I asked with my lips against her cheek. “Have I come home with the smell of pussy on my face?” I pushed past the crotch of her panties and jammed two fingers inside her.

She gasped. It couldn’t have felt good, and I didn’t care.

“Lipstick on my collar? Have I called you another name?” I dug my hand against her, pressing her clit.

“What are you doing?” she squeaked.

“I’m taking you.” I added a third finger. She was wet now. I slid them out and against her clit, then back inside. “I’m tired of this shit. There’s too much talking and not enough screaming.”

“God, what—”

“Say my name.”

“Elliot,” she moaned when I stroked her clit.

“Again.”

“Elliot.”

“When I say to get on your knees, get on your knees.” I stroked her clit, gathering moisture around it gently. “I’m going to drag you to the bedroom by your hair and throw you on the bed. Get on your back and spread your legs.” I put three fingers in her again, roughly, digging down to the knuckle. I had no idea what I was doing but telling a story of the next half an hour. “Then I’m going to bend your legs at the knees and kiss inside your thighs. My tongue will go from one knee to the other, stopping at your pussy for only a second. Then thigh to thigh. Then I’ll land on your clit. I’ll kiss it and lick it until you beg me to fuck you.”

I had her. She was wild, with hooded eyes, and her hair was in front of her face. When she looked at me, I was sure that when I said
get on your knees,
she would. I was rock hard, waiting for it.

Instead she said, “Is this how you talk to her?”

I stepped back, pulling my wet fingers out of her. I’d intended to put them in my mouth in front of her, but now they felt sticky and dirty. “Forget it. Just forget it.”

“I can’t shake this feeling there’s someone else.” She adjusted her clothes.

“I’ll be in the guest room.” I wasn’t supposed to stalk off into the other room and close the door. I was supposed to keep communication open, but I couldn’t, because I didn’t even know what I wanted from her. I didn’t know what I felt. What could I expect when I came at her like that after an evening looking at a BDSM playroom?