Now, while she’s alone. Now, while Alistair can’t interfere. Now, while the blood is roaring in my temples.

Now.

I fly into the hall, whirl down the stairs. If I don’t think, I can do it. If I don’t think. Don’t think. Thinking hasn’t gotten me anywhere so far. “The definition of insanity, Fox,” Wesley used to remind me, paraphrasing Einstein, “is doing the same thing again and again and expecting a different result.” So stop thinking and start acting.

Of course, it was only three days ago that I acted—acted in this very same way—and I wound up in a hospital bed. To try that again is insane.

Either way, I’m crazy. Fine. I need to know. And I’m no longer sure my house is safe.

My slippers skid on the kitchen floor as I rush across it, swerve around the sofa. That tube of Ativan on the coffee table. I upend it, shake three into my palm, clap my hand to my mouth. Down the hatch. I feel like Alice swigging the drink me potion.

Run to the door. Kneel to retrieve the umbrella. Stand, twist the lock, yank the door open. Now I’m in the hall, watery light leaking through the leaded glass. I breathe—one, two—and thumb the umbrella spring. With a sound like a sudden breath, the canopy spreads in the gloom. I bring it to eye level, fumble for the lock with my other hand. The trick is to keep breathing. The trick is to not stop.

I don’t stop.

The lock turns in my hand. The knob turns next. I crush my eyelids shut and pull. A gasp of cool air. The door dents the umbrella; I maneuver myself through the doorway.

Now the cold encloses me, hugs me. I scurry down the steps. One, two, three, four. The umbrella pushes against the air, plows through it, like the prow of a ship; with my eyes buttoned tight, I feel it flowing in sharp currents on either side of me.

My shins brake. Metal. The gate. I wave my hand until I’ve grasped it and draw it open, step through. The soles of my slippers slap concrete. I’m on the sidewalk. I feel needles of rain pricking my hair, my skin.

It’s strange: In all the months we’ve been experimenting with this ludicrous umbrella technique, it never occurred to me or (I assume) to Dr. Fielding that I might simply close my eyes. No sense in wandering around sightless, I suppose. I can feel the shift in barometric pressure, and my senses prickle; I know the skies are vast and deep, an upside-down ocean . . . but I screw my eyelids tighter still and think of my house: my study, my kitchen, my sofa. My cat. My computer. My pictures.

I pivot left. East.

I’m walking blind down a sidewalk. I need to orient myself. I need to look. Slowly I unshutter one eye. Light dribbles in through the thicket of my lashes.

For an instant I slow, almost stop. I’m squinting at the crosshatched innards of the umbrella. Four blocks of black, four lines of white. I imagine those lines surging with energy, bulging like a heartbeat monitor, spiking and sinking with the rhythm of my blood. Focus. One, two, three, four.

I tilt the umbrella up a few degrees, then a few more. There she is, bright as a spotlight, red as a stoplight: that scarlet coat, those dark boots, the clear plastic half-moon nodding above her. Between us stretches a tunnel of rain and pavement.

What will I do if she turns around?

But she doesn’t. I drop the umbrella and cram my eyelid shut once more. Step forward.

A second step. A third. A fourth. By the time I’ve stumbled over a crack in the sidewalk, my slippers sopping, my body shaking, sweat sliding down my back, I’ve decided to hazard a second look. This time I open the other eye, lift the umbrella until she flares within my view again, a streaking flame. I flick a glance left—St. Dymphna’s, and now the fire-red house, its window boxes throbbing with mums. I flick a glance right: the beady eyes of a pickup staring down the street, headlights livid in the gloom. I freeze. The car swims past. I squeeze my eyes shut.

When I open them again, it’s gone. And when I look down the sidewalk, I see that she is, too.

Gone. The sidewalk is empty. In the distance, through the haze, I can make out a knot of traffic at the intersection.

The haze thickens, and I realize it’s my vision thickening, quickening.

My knees buck, then buckle. I start to sink to the ground. And as I do, even with my eyes reeling in my skull, I picture myself from overhead, shivering in my sodden robe, my hair pasted against my back, an umbrella dipped uselessly in front of me. A lone figure on a lonely sidewalk.

I sink further, melting into the concrete.

But—

—she can’t be gone. She hadn’t reached the end of the block. I shut my eyes, picture her back, the hair brushing her neck; then I think of Jane as she stood at my sink, one long braid plunging between her shoulder blades.

And as Jane turns to face me, my knees brace themselves against each other. I feel the robe dragging along the sidewalk, but I haven’t collapsed yet.

I stand still, my legs locked.

She must have disappeared into . . . I review the map in my brain. What’s beyond that red house? The antique shop sits across the street—vacant now, I remember—and beside the house is—

The coffee shop, of course. She must be in the coffee shop.

I lift my head back, raise my chin to the sky, as though I might fling myself upright. My elbows piston. My splayed feet press against the sidewalk. The umbrella handle wobbles in my fist. I swing one arm out for balance. And with the rain misting around me and the hiss of traffic in the distance, I build myself back up—up, up, up—until I’m once again standing.

My nerves crackle. My heart ignites. I can feel the Ativan in my blood vessels, clearing them like clean water gushing through a disused hose.

One. Two. Three. Four.

I scrape one foot forward. A moment later, the other follows. I shuffle. I can’t believe I’m doing this. I’m doing this.

Now I hear the traffic squalling closer, louder. Keep walking. I peek at the umbrella; it fills my vision, surrounds me. There’s nothing outside it.

Until it jolts to the right.

“Oh—sorry.”

I flinch. Something—someone—has bumped into me, knocked the umbrella aside; it rushes past, a blue blur of jeans and coat, and as I turn to watch, I see myself in a pane of glass: my hair in weeds, my skin damp, a tattersall umbrella protruding from my hand like an enormous flower.

And behind my reflection, on the other side of the window, I see the woman.

I’m at the coffee shop.

I stare. My vision bends. The awning overhead droops toward me. I shut my eyes, then open them again.

The entrance is within reach. I extend my arm, fingers trembling. Before they can grasp the handle, the door jerks open and a young man emerges. I recognize him. The Takeda boy.

It’s been more than a year since I saw him up close—in person, I mean, not through a lens. He’s taller now, his chin and cheeks a scrubland of blunt dark hair, but he still radiates that same ineffable Good Kid–ness I’ve learned to spot in young people, a secret halo orbiting their heads. Livvy’s got one. Ethan’s got one.

The boy—young man, I suppose (and why can’t I remember his name?)—props the door open with one elbow, beckons me in. I notice his hands, those fine-boned cellist’s hands. I must look derelict, yet still he’s treating me this way. His parents raised him right, as GrannyLizzie would say. I wonder if he recognizes me. I suppose I’d scarcely recognize myself.

As I drift past him, entering the shop, my memory thaws. I used to drop in here a few times a week, on those mornings when I was too rushed to brew coffee at home. The store blend tasted pretty bitter—I assume it still does—but I liked the ambience of the place: the cracked mirror with the day’s specials scrawled on it in Magic Marker, the countertops with their Olympic-ring stains, the speaker system piping oldies. “Unpretentious mise-en-scène,” Ed remarked the first time I brought him there.

“You can’t say those words in the same sentence,” I told him.

“Just unpretentious, then.”

And unchanged. The hospital room crushed me, but this is different—this is terra cognita. My eyelashes flutter. I loft my gaze over the gaggle of customers, study the menu tacked above the cash register. A cup now costs $2.95. That’s a fifty-cent hike since I was last here. Inflation is a bitch.

The umbrella swings low, grazes my ankles.

So much I haven’t seen in so long. So much I haven’t felt, haven’t heard, haven’t smelled—the radiant warmth of human bodies, pop music from decades past, the punch of ground beans. The whole scene unreels in slow motion, in golden light. For a moment I shut my eyes, inhale, remember.

I remember moving through the world the way you move through air. I remember striding into this coffee shop, a winter coat wrapped tight around me or a sundress billowing at the knees; I remember brushing against people, smiling at them, talking to them.

When I open my eyes again, the gilt light fades. I’m in a dim room, next to windows rinsed with rain. My heart speeds.

A bolt of red flames by the pastry counter. It’s her, inspecting Danishes. She lifts her chin, catches sight of herself in the mirror. Tugs a hand through her hair.

I edge closer. I can feel eyes on me—not hers, but other customers’, sizing me up, this woman in a bathrobe with a mushroomed umbrella wagging before her. I clear a channel through the crowd, through the noise, as I chug toward the counter. Then the chatter resumes, like water closing over me while I sink.

She’s a few feet away from me. One more step and I could reach out and touch her. Catch her hair in my fingers. Pull.

At that moment, she turns slightly and drops a hand into her pocket, wiggles loose her oversize iPhone. In the mirror I watch her fingers dance across the screen, watch her face flicker. I imagine her writing to Alistair.

“Excuse me?” the barista asks.

The woman taps on her phone.

“Excuse me?”

And now—what am I doing?—I clear my throat. “You’re up,” I mutter.

She stops, nods in my direction. “Oh,” she says, then turns to the man behind the counter. “Skim latte, medium.”

She didn’t even look at me. I look at myself, in the mirror, see me standing in back of her like a specter, an avenging angel. I’ve come for her.

“Skim latte, medium. Did you want something to eat with that?”

I watch the mirror, watch her mouth—small, precision-cut, so unlike Jane’s. A little wave of anger wells within me, swells within me, crests against the base of my brain. “No,” she says after a second. Then, with a bright sickle smile: “No, I’d better not.”

Behind us, a chorus of chairs scrapes across the floor. I glance over my shoulder; a party of four is heading for the door. I turn back.

The barista, his voice ringing above the din: “Name?”

Then the woman and I lock eyes in the mirror. Her shoulders hop. Her smile melts.

For an instant, time freezes, that breathless moment when you’re sailing off the road, into the gorge.

And without turning around, without averting her gaze, she replies, in the same clear tone, “Jane.”

Jane.

The name bubbles to my lips before I can swallow it down. The woman pivots, spears me with a stare.

“I’m surprised to see you here.” Her tone as flat as her eyes. Shark eyes, I think, cold, hard. I want to point out that I’m surprised to be here myself, but the words skid on my tongue.

“I thought you were . . . impaired,” she continues. Withering.

I shake my head. She says nothing further.

I clear my throat again. Where is she and who are you? I want to ask. Who are you and where is she? Voices swirl around me, mingle with the words inside my head.

“What?”

“Who are you?” There.

“Jane.” It isn’t her voice, but the barista’s, floating across the counter, tapping Jane on the shoulder. “Skim latte for Jane.”

She keeps looking at me, watching me, as though I might strike. I’m a well-regarded psychologist, I could say to her, should say to her. And you’re a liar and a fraud.

“Jane?” The barista, trying a third time. “Your latte?”

She swivels, accepts the cup in its snug cardboard jacket. “You know who I am,” she tells me.

I shake my head once more. “I know Jane. I met her. I saw her in her house.” My voice is quaky but clear.

“It’s my house, and you didn’t see anyone.”

“I did.”

“You didn’t,” says the woman.

“I—”

“I hear you’re a drunk. I hear you’re on pills.” She’s moving now, circling me, the way a lioness does. Slowly I revolve with her, trying to keep up. I feel like a child. The conversations around us have stalled, stilled; there’s a brittle silence. In the corner of my eye, in a corner of the coffee shop, I can see the Takeda boy, still stationed by the door.

“You’re watching my house. You’re following me.”

I shake my head, drag it back and forth, slow, stupid.

“This has got to stop. We can’t live like this. Maybe you can, but we can’t.”

“Just tell me where she is,” I whisper.

We’ve come full circle.

“I don’t know who or what you’re talking about. And I’m calling the police.” She pushes past me, knocks my shoulder with her own. In the mirror I watch her leave, maneuvering between the tables as though they’re buoys.

The bell cries as she opens the door, again when it slams behind her.

I stand there. The room is quiet. My gaze sinks to my umbrella. My eyes close. It’s like the outside is trying to get in. I feel harrowed, hollowed. And once again, I’ve learned nothing.

Except this: She wasn’t arguing with me—not only arguing with me, anyway.

I think she was pleading.