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even had a supposition about it, I’d throw it out there, believe me. But the boyfriend thing? No, I don’t believe that.”
    He sat forward, his fingertips pressed together, studying her. What did he see? What was he thinking? Did she sound insane? Evidently so, because when he said very quietly, gently even, “You and I need to talk about you, Ms. Matlock,” she knew he didn’t believe her, probably hadn’t believed her for a minute. He continued in that same gentle voice, “There’s a big problem here. Without intervention, it will continue to get bigger and that worries me. Perhaps you’re already seeing a psychiatrist?”
    She had a big problem? She rose slowly and placed her hands on his desktop. “You’re right about that, Doctor. I do have a big problem. You just don’t know where the problem really is. That, or you refuse to recognize it. That makes it easier, I guess.”
    She grabbed up her purse and walked toward the door. He called after her, “You need me, Ms. Matlock. You need my help. I don’t like the direction you’re going. Come back and let me talk to you.”
    She said over her shoulder, “You’re a fool, sir,” and kept walking. “As for your objectivity, perhaps you should consult your ethics about that, Doctor.”
    She heard him coming after her. She slammed the door and took off running down the long, dingy hallway.

THREE
    Becca kept walking, her head down, out the front doors, staring at her Bally flats. From the corner of her eye, she saw a man turn away from her, quickly, too quickly. She was at One Police Plaza. There were a million people, all of them hurrying, like all New Yorkers, focused on where they were going, wasting not an instant. But this man, he was watching her, she knew it. It was him, it had to be. If only she could get close enough, she could describe him. Where was he now?
    Over there, by a city trash can. He was wearing sunglasses, the same opaque aviator glasses, and a red Braves baseball cap, this time backward. He was the bad guy in all of this, not her. Something hit her hard at that moment, and she felt pure rage pump through her. She yelled, “Wait! Don’t you run away from me, you coward!” Then she started pushing her way through the crowds of people to where she’d last seen him. Over there, by that building, wearing a sweatshirt, dark blue, long-sleeved, no windbreaker this time. She headed that way. She was cursed, someone elbowed her, but she didn’t care. She would become an instant New Yorker—utterly focused, rude if anyone dared to get in her way. She made it to the corner of the building, but she didn’t see any dark blue sweatshirt. No baseball cap. She stood there panting.
    Why didn’t the cops believe her? What had she ever done to make them believe she was a liar? What had made the Albany cops believe she’d lied? And now, he’d murdered that poor old woman by the museum. She wasn’t some crazy figment in her mind, she was very real and in the morgue.
    She stopped. She’d lost him. She stood there a long time, breathing hard, feeling scores of people part and go around her on either side. Two steps beyond her, the seas closed again.
    Forty-five minutes later, Becca was at Lenox Hill Hospital, sitting beside her mother’s bed. Her mother, who was now in a near-coma, was so drugged she didn’t recognize her daughter. Becca sat there, holding her hand, not speaking about the stalker, but talking about the speech she’d written for the governor on gun control, something she wasn’t so certain about now. “In all five boroughs, handgun laws are the same and are very strict. Do you know that one gun store owner told me that ‘to buy a gun in New York City, you have to stand in a corner on one leg and beg’?”
    She paused a moment. For the first time in her life, she desperately wanted a handgun. But