Little looks at me, then walks toward the door and studies the intercom. He pushes the buzzer.

“Who is it?” I ask, but he’s already pulling the door open.

A crisp march of footsteps and Alistair Russell walks in, packed into a cardigan, his face florid with the cold. He seems older than when I last saw him.

His eyes swoop the room, hawklike. They alight on Ethan.

“You’re going home,” he tells his son. Ethan doesn’t move. “Put the cat down and leave.”

“I want you to see this,” I start, swinging the picture toward him, but he ignores me, addresses Little.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he says, looking less than glad. “My wife says she heard this woman scream out the window at my son, and then I saw your car pull up.” On his previous visit, I remember, he’d been polite, even bemused. No more.

Little approaches. “Mr. Russell—”

“She’s been calling my house—did you know that?” Little doesn’t answer. “And my old office. She called my old office.”

So Alex turned me in. “Why were you fired?” I ask, but already he’s charging ahead, furious, leaning into his words.

“She followed my wife yesterday—did she mention that? I don’t suppose she did. Followed her to a coffee shop.”

“We know that, sir.”

“Tried to . . . confront her.” I peek at Ethan. It seems he didn’t tell his father he saw me afterward.

“This is the second time we’ve all been here.” Alistair’s voice has run raw. “First she claims she saw an attack in my house. Now she’s luring my son into her home. This has to stop. Where does it stop?” He looks directly at me. “She’s a menace.”

I stab the picture with my finger. “I know your wife—”

“You don’t know my wife!” he shouts.

I go silent.

“You don’t know anyone! You stay here in your house and you watch people.”

A flush stalks the length of my neck. My hand drops to my side.

He isn’t finished. “You’ve invented some . . . encounters with some woman who isn’t my wife and isn’t even—” I wait for the next word, the way you brace for a blow. “Isn’t even real,” he says. “And now you’re harassing my son. You’re harassing all of us.”

The room is quiet.

Finally Little speaks. “All right.”

“She’s delusional,” adds Alistair. There it is. I glance at Ethan; he’s staring at the floor.

“All right, all right,” Little repeats. “Ethan, I think it’s time for you to head home. Mr. Russell, if you could stay here—”

But now it’s my turn.

“Stay here,” I agree. “Maybe you can explain this.” I lift my arm again, up above my head, level with Alistair’s eyes.

He reaches for the paper, takes it. “What is this?”

“It’s a picture your wife drew.”

His face goes blank.

“When she was here. At that table.”

“What is it?” asks Little, moving to Alistair’s side.

“Jane drew it for me.”

“It’s you,” Little says.

I nod. “She was here. This proves it.”

Alistair has collected himself. “It doesn’t prove anything,” he snaps. “No—it proves you’re so crazy that you’re actually trying to . . . fabricate evidence.” He snorts. “You’re out of your mind.”

Ka-pow, out of your mind, I think. Rosemary’s Baby. I feel myself frown. “What do you mean, fabricate evidence?”

“You drew this yourself.”

Between us, Norelli speaks. “Just like you could’ve taken that photo and sent it to yourself and we wouldn’t be able to prove it.”

I reel back, as though I’ve been punched. “I—”

“You okay there, Dr. Fox?” Little, stepping toward me.

The robe drops from my hand again, slithers to the floor.

I’m swaying. The room revolves around me like a carousel. Alistair glowers; Norelli’s eyes have gone dark; Little’s hand hovers over my shoulder. Ethan hangs back, the cat still draped over his arm. They whirl past me, all of them; no one to cling to, no ground to stand on. “I didn’t draw this picture. Jane drew it. Right here.” I wag my fingers toward the kitchen. “And I didn’t take that photo. I couldn’t have taken it. I’m— Something is happening, and you’re not helping.” I can’t put it any other way. I try to seize the room; it slips from my grip. I fumble toward Ethan, reach for him, clasp his shoulder with my shaking hand.

“Stay away from him,” Alistair explodes, but I look into Ethan’s eyes, raise my voice: “Something is happening.”

“What’s happening?”

We all turn as one.

“Front door was open,” says David.