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when he sees me.
    “What are
you
doing here?” he says, as though I’m someone he knows, and I shouldn’t be there.
    He’s a little taller than me, with cropped graying hair and a lived-in face. Forty-something. I see in a theoretical kind
     of way that he is quite attractive, that other women might like the way he looks.
    “I’m sorry.” I feel an acute, disproportionate embarrassment about everything—hearing the quarrel, that I’m here at all.
    He’s staring at me still, as though he finds me perplexing.
    “I’m Ginnie Holmes from the Westcotes Clinic,” I tell him.
    “Hi, Ginnie,” he says. He reaches out, as though he’s remembering how he ought to behave. I half get up, unsure what to do.
     He shakes my hand, and I notice the warmth of his skin.
    “The desk sergeant showed me through,” I say.
    “He could have told me,” he says.
    I decide that Clem was right, that he is a difficult man.
    He’s restless, the energy of his anger still hanging around him. He sits at the desk and takes out his cuff links and pushes
     up his sleeves.
    “So, Ginnie, how can I help you?” His gaze is hard, puzzled.
    “I’ve been trying to ring you,” I tell him. “I couldn’t get through.”
    “That happens, I’m afraid,” he says. “It’s been crazy here. Tell me what can I do for you.”
    I tell him I’m a psychologist, that I’m working with a child that I don’t understand.
    He’s leaning forward across the desk, his hands loosely clasped in front of him. His hands are close to mine. I notice the
     pale skin, the dark hairs on the backs of his fingers, the lilac web of veins inside his wrists.
    I tell him about Kyle, how I feel he’s been through some trauma but I don’t know what it was. Will Hampden has his eyes on
     me, dark eyes, with red flecks in. As I talk I’m very conscious of his intent, puzzled gaze. I decide he doesn’t like me.
     I think how I must seem to him—prissy, bland, ineffectual, my skin reddened from walking here, my hair all messy from the
     morning’s rain.
    “I don’t remember the name,” he says, “but that doesn’t mean a thing. I’ll have a look on Crim Int. Let’s see what we can
     find out for you.”
    He searches on his computer, and gives me the dates the police were called to the house. He says he’ll have a word with the
     officer involved.
    “Where can I find you, Ginnie?”
    I give him my cell phone number.
    “I’ll see what I can do for you,” he says.
    I know this means that our conversation is over. I get up, pull my jacket around my shoulders. I have an odd, incomplete feeling,
     but there’s no reason to stay.
    “OK, then. Thanks.”
    “My pleasure,” he says. He sits there for a moment, looking me over. There’s something unequal about this, the way he doesn’t
     stand although I’m standing, as though he’s breaking some unspoken rule.
    “I like the shoes,” he says.
    “Thanks.” I make a little dismissive gesture, unnerved by this, not knowing what to say. “To be honest, I’m not sure they’re
     really me,” I tell him. Then wonder why I said that.
    His eyes hold mine.
    “What
is
really you, Ginnie?” he says.
    My stomach tightens. I don’t say anything.
    There’s a little silence while he just sits there looking at me. I can hear my breathing.
    “Well,” he says then. He pushes back his chair: He’s brisk again, full of purpose. “I’ll show you out, Ginnie. Where did you
     leave your car?”
    “I didn’t,” I tell him. “It’s in the garage. They told me the transmission had packed up. It’s been one of those days.”
    “For me too,” he says. He smiles at me, a sudden, vivid smile.
    He takes me out through the back of the station, down a long white corridor lit by harsh tubular lighting that shines into
     all the corners. The walls are scuffed in places, as though they have been kicked. We hear the shriek of a siren as a police
     car pulls away from the car park at the back of the building. I hunt around