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back to the window. He had listened to the first few voice mails Prescott had left. Archie had thought that if he didn’t call
back, Prescott would get the message. He’d been wrong.
    “I’ve been trying to reach you,” Prescott said.
    Archie knew all about Prescott. He had an undergrad degree from UC Davis and an M.D. from Harvard. He’d ended up on the psychiatric staff of the Oregon State Hospital right out of med
school, and he’d clawed his way to chief shrink by the tender age of thirty-five. Archie had read all of Prescott’s reports on Gretchen. That was the arrangement. One-way access.
Emphasis on one-way . No one outside the hospital administration, including Prescott, was supposed to know just how involved in Gretchen’s care Archie really was.
    “I’ve left messages,” Prescott said.
    At thirty-five, Archie had been running the Beauty Killer Task Force—combing crime scenes, interviewing relatives, observing autopsies.
    “I’m one of Gretchen Lowell’s doctors,” Prescott said.
    Archie scratched at the scar on his neck. Traffic was backed up on the interstate. The parade of red taillights headed north as far as he could see. Too late for rush hour. There must have been
an accident. “I’m not coming down there,” Archie said. “You can tell her to go fuck herself.”
    There was a pause. Finally Prescott said, “She’s been making progress. She’s been quite adamant about needing to speak with you.”
    The white headlights heading south were slow now, too. Gawkers. Human nature. Everyone had to look. “She’s playing you, Doctor,” Archie said. “There’s no shame in
it. I’ve been played by her.” That was an understatement. “Epically. But trust me, whatever she’s telling you to make you think that you calling me is at all appropriate in
any universe, she’s lying.”
    “She says she has a child,” Prescott said.
    Archie’s body went numb. He swallowed hard, trying to recover his voice. “That’s impossible,” he said.
    “She thinks this child is in danger,” Prescott said. “That you are the only one who can help.”
    Archie had seen Gretchen’s medical records. Her tubes had been tied. The scars were old; the doctors who’d examined her thought the surgery had been done when she was a teenager.
This was all part of the game. The sky was darkening and the traffic on I-5 looked pretty, a festive ribbon of red and white. Archie shook his head slowly and laughed. “This is insane,”
he said. “This is what she does. She manipulates people. You know that. She’s convinced people to kill for her, for Christ’s sake. She fucks with people’s heads for
entertainment.” He would not give her the satisfaction. Not this time.
    “What if it’s true?” Prescott said.
    “I would not save Gretchen Lowell’s child if it was dying right in front of me,” Archie said.
    “What if you’re the father?”
    There it was. Archie had always wondered why she hadn’t said anything. The waiting had made him crazy at first. Knowing at any moment that she could go public to a lawyer or a reporter or
a cop. Archie had told a few people some of the truth. But no one knew the whole story. No one but Gretchen. Maybe Prescott didn’t know anything. Maybe he was fishing. “That’s
impossible,” Archie said definitively.
    “Is it?” Prescott said.
    Archie’s mouth was dry. “Don’t call me again,” he said, and he ended the call.
    Blood throbbed in Archie’s throat. His chest ached. Acid rose from his stomach and made him gag. He tightened his fist around the phone, walked deliberately back into the hall, and then
slammed the phone hard against the exposed brick wall. It made a satisfying cracking sound and split into three pieces and fell to the floor.
    Archie’s hand pulsed with pain and he lifted his bleeding knuckles to his mouth. But the impact had splintered away his anxiety. He was in control. It felt good, actually. He was starting
to think about giving