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because he’s going to write a lot of books, and I’m going to buy them all. He might even end up writing more than Dingle. So there. The others are my favorites. Didn’t you read the Hardy Boys growing up? Bring the food into the kitchen. If we eat in here, you might get dizzy and throw up.”
    Jane was aware of him on her heels as she headed into the kitchen. “Sit down,” she said, motioning to an oak pressed-back chair. She zipped around the kitchen collecting plates, napkins, silverware, and, finally, two bottles of beer. “ Bon appetit, ” she said, setting it all down in the center of the table.
    â€œI hope I haven’t offended you,” Mike said, his grin conflicting with his words.
    â€œIt takes a lot more than a wiseass psychiatrist to offend me,” Jane snapped back as she dug into the carton of fried rice.
    â€œOw,” he said, rubbing his cheek as if she’d slapped him.
    She ignored him.
    â€œHey, I like these paper plates—”
    â€œThese aren’t paper, they’re plastic. There’s a difference. See, these are hard, and the food doesn’t soak through.”
    â€œWhy so testy? I’m for whatever it takes to make life easier. Paper plates. Carryout. Housekeepers. Gardeners. If you can afford it, I say go for it.”
    â€œDo you have an opinion on everything ?”
    His composure melted like butter, and for a moment he looked like a shy little boy. “I talk a lot when I’m nervous. I was nervous about coming here. Then, when I saw those books I was off and running.” He forked a helping of sweet-and-sour pork onto his plate.
    Jane put some white rice and chow mein onto a plate and set it on the floor for Olive. “She’s a vegetarian,” she explained. “There’s no MSG in this food, is there?” He’d been nervous about coming. She couldn’t decide if she should be flattered or annoyed.
    â€œNo MSG.”
    Jane uncapped the two bottles of Corona and took a swig from hers. When he didn’t reach for his, she wondered if he was expecting a glass. A devil perched itself atop her shoulder as she reached behind her for a bright red plastic tumbler.
    â€œThe bottle’s fine,” he said. “How’d your session go this afternoon?”
    â€œIt didn’t. He canceled two minutes before he was supposed to show up. I explained about you and next week. He’s okay with it. How’d it go with your battery guy?”
    Mike sighed. “He said he bought stock in Duracell yesterday. A lot of stock. Five thousand shares to be exact. And he found a wholesaler who will deliver batteries to him once a week. Kind of like a home-delivery milkman.”
    Jane digested the information. “So did you find out why he’s so obsessed with batteries?”
    â€œNo, not yet. He took a circuitous route around every question I put to him.”
    Over the years Jane had treated any number of patients with obsessions—hand washing, collections, organization. But never batteries. Was the man worried there would be a loss of power? Or did he think the batteries would give him power? “Does he have any health problems?”
    Mike finished chewing before answering. “Yeah, a bunion on his left foot. The guy’s an ox. He radiates good health.”
    â€œWhat does he do work-wise?”
    â€œHe’s some big comptroller at a mega chemical company.” Mike waved his fork. “Let’s not talk about him. It makes me crazy when I think about him lugging all those batteries around everywhere he goes. Tell me about you, Jane. I’ve seen you at various conferences, and I’ve heard you on your radio show, but other than that, all I know about you is what I remember from high school. Are you married, divorced, what?”
    â€œSingle. Between renovating this house and my practice, I haven’t had much time to get involved. That’s not to say I