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she’s a danger to herself or others.”
    â€œShe’s not.”
    â€œHer husband says different. He says she’s suicidal.”
    â€œHer husband has his own set of issues to deal with.”
    I wondered if therapists had to take another course in how to talk and not say anything. “So, you’re telling me he’s lying.”
    â€œI’m telling you he’s not a professional.”
    Simmone half turned in his chair, picked up a pencil off his desk, and began fiddling with it. The air coming through the heat vents in the room made a whooshing noise. I tried a different tack.
    â€œAnd the fact that she’s run away doesn’t concern you?”
    Simmone put the pencil down. “I’d have to know more about why she left before I rendered an opinion.”
    â€œI take it you’re not going to help me?”
    â€œNo. I’ve already made that abundantly clear to her husband. It would be a breach of ethics.”
    â€œSuit yourself. I hope you have good malpractice insurance because you’re going to need it.”
    â€œThis is ridiculous.”
    I stood up. Being in the room was like being in a womb. It was making me claustrophobic.
    â€œNot to Walter Wilcox.” I placed my card on Simmone’s desk.
    From the expression on his face, I’d laid a dead mouse on his desk. He pushed it away with the tip of his finger. “People like you . . .” he began. But I didn’t give him time to finish.
    â€œDo yourself a favor,” I told him, “and call me if you remember anything. Or find anything out.”
    â€œI can tell you right now, you’re not going to be hearing from me.”
    â€œOkay. But I wouldn’t want to be you if this woman dies.”
    â€œOut,” ordered Simmone pointing to the door. Very dramatic.
    When I left, he was reaching for the phone.
    Probably to call his lawyer.

Chapter Ten
    I was on my way back to Noah’s Ark when I got a call on my cell. It was the au pair from the Goldstein house.
    â€œRemember how you were asking me about Janet Wilcox?” she said.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWell, I lied when I told you I didn’t know anything.”
    â€œOkay.” The SUV in back of me honked as I maneuvered my way around an Explorer that was turning left. “You’ve got my attention.”
    â€œGive me a hundred dollars, and I’ll tell you something interesting.”
    â€œThat’s a little steep, isn’t it?”
    â€œNot for this. If you don’t like it, you don’t have to pay me.”
    â€œThat seems fair.”
    We arranged to meet at the entrance to Wegmans Supermarket in ten minutes. I got to the grocery store early. It was a little before dinnertime and the place was jammed with shoppers. I had to circle the lot three times before I found a parking place on the far end. I waited inside the doors, next to the grocery carts, and watched people streaming in and out.
    The adults looked tired and drawn after their day at work, and the children looked cranky and fidgety. Everyone was in a hurry, anxious to get home. The carts going by me were full of frozen dinners and prepared foods, and then I saw a man walking out with a loaf of bread under one arm and a string bag containing artichokes, carrots, and circles of brie and I thought of George.
    George and his food. He liked shopping for it. He liked cooking it. He liked feeding me, the only man I’d ever gone with who had. He made himself dinner every night. Sometimes on Sunday afternoons in the winter he baked bread. It had been nice coming into his house, smelling the flour and the yeast. I wondered if his wife and child would like it. God. Better not to think about him. At all. Better to pretend he’d died. I was reaching for a cigarette when I spotted the au pair coming through the door.
    She was dressed in jeans, sweater, matching gloves and scarf, and a black microfiber jacket.
    â€œI’m buying