to death, having dug a razor into her femoral artery. Celia’s stream of consciousness continued for the entire session, revealing how sly she’d thought she’d been, how carefully she’d hidden her secret, how long she’d been doing it. She talked calmly and matter-of-factly about slashing herself as her fingers worked and squeezed. When the orderly came to get her, she released her clay onto the table in a twisted, strangled wad.

The day sped on, a staff meeting and private sessions in close succession. My final patient was the silent schizophrenic, Evie Kraus. Evie’s chart indicated some dramatic changes had been made. Her medications had been reduced, and she’d become more alert and responsive. And although she hadn’t actually spoken, she’d begun expressing herself vocally. Evie had begun to sing. In fact, she’d been singing all week. Even as I greeted her, she was crooning a tune.

“Somebody’s knockin’. Somebody’s knockin’.” I recognized the song. An oldie, recorded by Terri Gibbs. It was about the devil. About choices, giving in or resisting sin. I made a note on her chart, even wrote down the words as she sang them.

“Lord, it’s the devil. Would you look at him? I’ve heard about him . . . But I never dreamed . . . he’d have blue eyes and blue jeans.”

Evie’s voice was clear and, in contrast to her imposing size and tattooed limbs, surprisingly sweet. I was thrilled to hear it and told her so. She looked my way but didn’t respond. She just kept singing. “He must have tapped my telephone line. He must have known I’m spendin’ my time alone.”

Working with pastel oil sticks, she drew a pink door, just the door, no house or building attached. The door was locked, padlocked in vivid purple. She sang and hummed as she worked, the same song. Over and over. “Somebody’s knockin’. Should I let him in? Lord, it’s the devil. Would you look at him?” On and on. Over and over. When her session ended, she was still singing. After she was gone, for the rest of the day and well into the night, her song remained in my head, an endless loop of melody and words.

Finally, it was time to go home. I grabbed a taxi, puzzling over Beverly Gardener’s morning visit. The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. Who’d given Beverly Gardener the right to claim Nick as her personal property? And what made her think she could order me off? Thinking about her made my head throb. Evie’s devil song didn’t help, beating over and over in my mind. The cab headed across town through a drizzling, ominous dusk, and I rubbed my temples, eager to get home, lock the door, and settle in for the night.

But—oh damn—it was Thursday. Gymnastics night—the mothers’ meeting. Susan was bringing whistles; we were going to organize and plan ways to protect our nannies and our neighborhoods. Like starting a town watch, a buddy system. Arming the nannies with cell phones and maybe Mace. Discussing Angela’s kickboxing classes, the possibility that her instructor could start a nanny program. Maybe I’d alert the others to the details of Beverly Gardener’s profile. Damn, there she was again, Beverly Gardener, brazenly intruding into my thoughts. Claiming her turf, clinging to Nick’s arm. I closed my eyes, erasing the image, and kept humming Evie’s song.

By the time the cab pulled up to the house, the sky was dark and the drizzle had turned to glassy sleet. Even so, I sprinted up to the door without slipping. Thanks to Jake’s guys, my steps had been freshly salted.

THIRTY-FIVE

“DON’T HANG UP.“

I was changing, getting ready for gymnastics, when Michael called.

“I can’t talk now, Michael.” Or ever, for that matter.

“Look, that stuff about no more Mr. Nice Guy? I got pissed. You frustrated me and I lost my temper. But you know it was all smoke.”

“It doesn’t matter, Michael. Stop pushing.” “Pushing? Oh, you think I’m calling about Nana’s ring? No, Zoe, I’m calling because I’m worried about you.”

“Really.”

“Christ,” he sighed. “You bet I am, with you and your kid all alone right where all those single women are disappearing.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not single; I’m divorced.”

“You think some lunatic’s going to make the distinction? You’re an unattached woman, that’s all that matters.”

“They were all nannies or babysitters, Michael. Not moms.”

He paused; I was sure he was thinking, “Well, you’re not really Molly’s mom—she’s adopted.” But he didn’t say it. Didn’t dare. “The latest one disappeared right around the corner