parts of it. And if you do, you need to sort it out.”

I didn’t understand. He didn’t make sense. Was he implying that by listening to Charlie I’d become delusional? That Charlie’s madness was contagious? That I’d caught it?

“Beverly says Charlie’s delusions must have begun way before the nannies began to disappear,” he went on, “and that the person he was guarding you from was none other than himself— that is, part of himself.”

“What?”

“Charlie divided himself into ‘good’ and ‘bad’ parts. His good part didn’t like the bad, so he blocked it out and gave his bad self a separate identity. In other words, he created an evil alter ego out of his own dark side.”

“And that’s who was reading his thoughts? His alter ego?”

“Exactly. The evil murderer who wired his dreams and listened in on his thoughts was really himself. His own other half.”

“Beverly Gardener said all this?”

“She’s very smart.”

“And she knew so much about Charlie because—”

“Because of the police investigation. And what you said in your response to her profile report.” His words merged, became a steady flow of senseless syllables. Beverly Gardener was apparently Nick’s ultimate authority on everything, but I wasn’t sure she was as smart as he thought. How could she claim to know so much about a man she’d never met? Her explanation was all theory, a bunch of impressive psychological terms thrown together to sound good, nothing to do with the real Charlie. Nick spoke slowly, as if doubting that I could follow him. My fingers were ice. Coming close, he put his hands over them and squeezed, pressing warmth into my skin.

“The victims were ordinary women. But Beverly’s convinced that to Charlie they were substitutes for another woman who’s anything but ordinary. A woman who was very special to him. A woman he watched tirelessly from afar and was fascinated with to the point of obsession. Zoe Hayes.”

Me? Charlie was obsessed with me? The idea was unfathomable. Behind Nick, in the shadows, Charlie harrumphed indignantly as Nick’s voice sailed past me, full speed ahead, skimming the surface, not sinking in. I sat still, aware of the meaty warmth of his hands.

He kept talking. I heard him repeat Beverly Gardener’s name, recite her comments point by point. Did he memorize everything she said? Ask him, I thought. Go ahead. But I didn’t ask, didn’t want to hear his answer.

“Nick, if it’s okay—can we not talk about this anymore?”

“Sure. It’s a lot to digest all at once.” He released my hands and went back to his vegetables. Chop, chop. Dice, slice. Another swig of wine. He lopped the florets off broccoli. I listened to the blade hit the wood, heard the screaming of mushrooms, the rending of veggie flesh. Veggie flesh? Oh please, I told myself. Not every situation is one of culprit and victim. I needed to let go of my pervasive sense of danger.

“I can understand why you don’t want to talk about him,” Nick said. “But you’re safe now. Charlie won’t be bothering you anymore.”

Except that he was, even at that moment, bothering me. Making faces at Nick’s knife, mocking his chopping motions. Nick’s knife twinkled, dripped tomato seeds onto the floor.

Finally, he stopped cutting. “Okay, enough. You’re right. We should put all of this aside.”

Put it aside? Where? On the counter beside the bread?

“You look pensive. Is there something else, honey?”

Honey? I took a breath. Swallowed. Nick liked me. He wasn’t just being a cop; he’d called me “honey.” It was odd, alien. Paternalistic? Maybe, but still nice, sort of. What was going through honey’s mind? Images, not words. Images of Nick’s buns as he prepared dinner. Did I want to talk about them? Uh-uh. Images of Beverly Gardener with her glossed lips and implant-enhanced breasts. Images of a lopped-off, polished pinkie. And images of Charlie. Charlie on his porch, on my steps, in his Pontiac. I could almost hear his hoarse cough.

Okay, I’d tell him. “Charlie was sick,” I said, “but Charlie didn’t kill anyone. He couldn’t have. He was harmless.”

Nick hesitated, taking in the comment. “What makes you so sure?”

“I just know.”

“Well, there’s a lot of physical evidence that disagrees with you. Body parts were found in his damn basement, Zoe.” “I know.”

“So how can you be sure that he’s innocent?” “Charlie wasn’t a killer.”

“Not the side of him he showed the world. That side didn’t seem like a murderer. If it had, he’d never have gotten close to the victims. But who’d suspect an old handyman with