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damp. She felt weak and ridiculous as she fought for composure, and she hated feeling weak and not in control of a situation.
    “But most of all, you came to me because you trust me, because you know that what you tell me and what I tell you will stay between us, and because you know that I want to help you and that I will do everything I can to help you deal with this thing that’s driven you to me.”
    The dam broke and Amanda started to sob. She made no sound but her head bobbed up and down. She jammed her fists in her eyes to stop the tears but she couldn’t. Dodson let her cry. When her shoulders stopped shaking, he handed Amanda a box of tissues that had been sitting on his desk.
    “I want you to tell me what happened last year with the surgeon,” Dodson said when Amanda was calmer.
    Amanda spoke with her head down and her eyes averted. She spoke without emotion, as if she was relating the plot of a movie she had seen a while ago. In the movie she was stripped naked, tape was placed over her mouth, her hands were secured behind her back with plastic restraints, and a hood was placed over her head. Then she was forced to run through a tunnel, her breath coming in short gasps, a sharp knife jabbing her buttocks to force her to move faster. And all that time the surgeon told her his plans for her and revealed his interest in testing how much pain a well-conditioned athlete could endure before she died or went insane.
    “Before your escape, how did you feel?” the psychiatrist asked.
    “Scared,” Amanda answered. The short time in Dodson’s office had exhausted her, and she wanted to curl up on his carpet and go to sleep. “I . . . I was certain that I was going to die.”
    “What about physiologically?”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “How was your breathing?”
    “I had a lot of trouble. My mouth was taped, and a hood was pulled down over my head. There were moments when I thought that I might black out.”
    “What about your heartbeat?”
    “It was elevated, really beating hard, and I was sweating.”
    “Have there been times since the incident, after you knew that you were safe, when you’ve reexperienced these physiological responses?”
    “Yes.”
    “Okay. What about after you escaped? How did that feel?”
    “At first I didn’t know that I was free. I just ran, expecting him to catch me any second. Then the SWAT team found me. I was elated, really excited for a short time.”
    “It looked like the surgeon had escaped, too, at first, didn’t it?”
    Amanda nodded.
    “How did you feel during that period?”
    “Very frightened. I had a police guard, but I jumped at every sound and I always had the feeling that someone was watching me.”
    “How did you feel when you learned that your tormentor was dead?”
    “I was with Dad. Sean McCarthy, the lead detective, drove out to the house. He told us in person. I remember not hearing what he said, at first. It was like what happens in a dream sometimes, when a person is right in front of you talking but the sound doesn’t travel. I don’t think I showed any emotion. I don’t think I believed it. When I finally accepted what Sean had said, I almost collapsed from relief.”
    “Did you feel safe again?”
    “For a time.”
    “When did that feeling of being safe fade away?”
    Amanda felt anxious as she recalled the first time she’d had a flashback.
    “Drink some water,” Dodson urged. “When you’re ready to talk about it, tell me what happened.”
    “This is really stupid.”
    “Try me,” Dodson said, encouraging her with an understanding smile.
    “I was home alone watching television, some cop show. I just turned it on without knowing the plot, and it was about a serial killer.”
    Amanda licked her lips nervously and took another drink of water.
    “He grabbed a woman in a parking lot and locked her in the back of his van. She was screaming and pounding on the door. They were driving through the center of a big city and no one knew