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they’re common criminals—or worse, they’re cowards.” He pulled back suddenly, shrugging off the brief excursion into rhetoric.
    â€œYou don’t think much of cowards.”
    â€œDo you?”
    â€œYou’ve made reference to them twice in a matter of minutes.”
    â€œI don’t like psychoanalysis, either.” He smiled.
    Sylvia reached out, her fingers sliding over molded plastic, to tear open the seal on the test booklet. The first two inventories she planned to administer—the Millon Clinical Multiaxial and the Minnesota Multiphasic—would total at least five hours.
    She glanced at her watch.
    â€œHot date?”
    She met his eyes, saw the mockery there, and reached for her briefcase. “Mr. Dantes, either I’m not doing any better than my colleagues or you’re not interested in completing these inventories or both.” She stood. “Let’s not waste any more time.”
    Immediately, he held his palms out; it was a gesture of surrender, the action of a lonely man. “You win,” he said, reaching for the booklet, sliding it to his side of the table. He picked up the pencil, gesturing for her to be seated again.
    She blinked as if coming from dark to light, disoriented, mustering herself. Her head ached, her deltoids were so tight they burned, she had to pee—but the last thing she’d do was take a break now and end up with nothing.
    Outside, in the hallway, heavy footsteps sounded. The urgent tones of an argument penetrated the walls of the room.
    Taking her seat opposite him for the second time, she said, “This conversation—and the test results—will not be confidential, but the project’s coordinators will make every attempt to keep transcripts secure and available only to participants—”
    She stiffened when Dantes’ hand suddenly covered her own.
    â€œLunatics and inmates. We’re not so bad, are we?” he whispered.
    Wrenching her hand away, Sylvia felt Dantes watching her, felt the hunger of his curiosity.
    â€œYou can’t save them all, can you, Sylvia?” Dantes’ voice was soft, seductive.
    Sylvia stared at him, blinking, hearing another voice internally. Dr. Strange, although the committee finds no grounds to cite you with an ethical violation in the death of Mona Carpenter, we do have concerns. It seems you did comply with the standards of your profession regarding safeguards against suicide, but when it came to the use of your judgment you could’ve gone the extra mile, relying less on intuition and luck, more on solid follow-up .
    Dantes gazed back at her, his face a study in compassion, his voice soothing, as he said, “Tell me about Mona Carpenter.”
    The shock registered. She said nothing. She focused on a single thought: I know how to handle this—it comes with the job.
    Dantes said, “Pills and cutting—isn’t that overkill?” With each word his breath quickened as if he was aroused. If he had assaulted her physically, it couldn’t have been worse. But he wasn’t finished yet.
    â€œWhat did it feel like to actually hear her death?” he asked.
    Sylvia gathered together the tests and the tape recorder, sweeping them into her briefcase. She watched her sunglasses skid to the floor. Her heart was racing.
    Dantes rose straight up from his chair, his presence filling the room as he whispered his last question. “What’s it like to know you could’ve saved her?”
    For an instant Sylvia believed he would go further than verbal assault—but he’d already drawn blood. He stood rooted, burning her with his stare.
    She knew the protocol for threatening or aggressive patients: remain calm, maintain distance, keep a barrier between you—always know where to find the panic button. She’d been here before—she’d be here again. None of that seemed to matter. She felt the rush of adrenaline, every synapse