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past," he said, his voice all delicate and tentative.
    "Oh, God, no!" I said. "It's Kaitlin and her father. She's filed suit against him."
    "This sounds important," said Dr. Baxter. "But our time is up. We'll talk more about this next Thursday."
    Which seemed to be always the way with shrinks: either you had nothing to say and fifty long minutes to say it in, or you were on the verge of a major breakthrough but the next loony tune was banging on the waiting-room door.
    Dr. Baxter ushered me out before I had time to remind him I wasn't coming next Thursday. Or to tell him that I wasn't at all sure I'd be back the one after that.

 
    Chapter 4
     
     
    On my way down the exit hallway, I noticed that the double doors guarding Baxter's neighbor's office stood cracked open several inches. This was not up to Dr. Bencher's usual standard of security. Not that I blamed him for being careful. I, too, would have preferred to keep two steel-reinforced doors and a peephole between me and the sea of human flotsam that bobbed about in the safe harbor of his waiting room.
    A muffled gurgling noise halted my beeline charge for the stairs. I heard the noise again—not so much gurgling this time as rasping, like someone who seriously could not breathe. I decided to go back and tell Baxter—let him check on Bencher.
    But when I reached the waiting area, Baxter's door had been shut, and the heavy-set, miserable-looking woman who often followed my session no longer sat in the chair by the window. Damn. Now alerting Baxter to the weird noise would involve bursting into her reserved hour and reporting what would most likely turn out to be a figment of my presently overexcitable imagination. Then next session, we'd end up discussing sibling rivalry or not having gotten enough attention from my father in the process of growing up or some other equally absurd and embarrassing interpretation of my attempt to be helpful.
    For the second time, I walked past Bencher's open doors. I heard a faint hiss, then more gurgling, slower this time. I turned back and knocked on the door. No answer. I peered around the door and into the doctor's office. An Impressionist print hung on the beige wall—a mother carrying a parasol, strolling through a hazy field of flowers with her child. Neutral colors, subtle subject, nothing that would agitate an already fragile psyche.
    I stepped all the way into the room. The layout mirrored Baxter's office, but with the furnishings just half a step classier and more welcoming. Like in Baxter's inner sanctum, the office had a leather Eames chair for the doctor— comfortable enough, but not so plush that the occupant would be tempted to doze off. Bencher's patients had the choice of a flowered Victorian fainting couch or an upholstered rocker. I wondered whether he was a better shrink or just more generous with his decorating budget.
    Then I was seized with an irresistible urge to try out the couch. I snickered. Goldilocks and the three shrinks. The pillow on the couch was covered with white paper— no sharing of head lice allowed. Just as the weight of my head began to crinkle the paper on the sofa, I spotted Bencher. He lay sprawled on his back, partly hidden by his rolltop desk. He had a hole punched in his neck. Although his body didn't move, his lips twitched. His eyes were wide and desperate. And the wound gurgled like some horrible, enormous baby's mouth as blood poured out onto the carpet.
    I screamed. I leaped up and backed into the corridor yelling for help. Then I stepped back over Bencher's body and dialed 911. The police, who must have continued hassling the protesters during the length of my session, arrived quickly. Dr. Baxter was next, his fat, unhappy patient trailing behind him. The first officer on the scene interviewed me briefly, then grabbed Bencher's footstool, dragged it to a corner of the room, and pointed.
    "Sit," said the officer, whose name tag identified him as Sergeant Dixon. "Don't touch