So we're going to sit down and sort it out."
I let him inside.
What choice did I have?
If I refused, the story became true.
A wealthy woman with no evidence except a child's crayon drawing, holding a trusted doctor hostage in her dining room.
The phones would be ringing before sunset.
Reeves stepped into the living room.
Dr.
Vale was sitting on the sofa now, hands folded, his expression soft and worried.
He looked at the detective with something close to relief.
"Thank you for coming,"
he said.
"I'm sorry to bother you.
I didn't know what else to do."
"You called,"
Reeves said.
"Tell me again."
And Martin Vale told him a story.
He told him I was his patient of long standing.
He told him I had recently begun to experience what he gently called "episodic disorientation."
He told him I had accused a housekeeper's child of poisoning me, that I had screamed at him, that I had ordered the gates locked and refused to let him leave.
