I slogged my way through Gloria’s carton, the excitement of the hunt matched only by my fear of discovering nothing. She had separated each patient’s file with a large piece of red construction paper, so I put them into individual piles on the table. After I covered the table I used the floor.

The last file I pulled out of the box was Fran’s. Her name scrawled in black marker hit me like a kick in the face. She hadn’t visited a gynecologist at 290, she’d been there to see Gloria. I felt like a fool. Although Simon had referred me to Dr. James, I had no recollection of Fran being mentioned. He might have; my memories of that period were hazy at best.

Standing immobilized in the middle of my kitchen, surrounded by the urgent pleadings of battered lives, I remained oblivious to the obvious connection. I suppose Starring alarms should have sounded, but I just wanted to stuff Fran’s records back into the box. I was too close to the fissure in my relationship with Simon to stomach any more of his wife’s emotional reality, no matter how compelling. Later, I realized that I had lied so frequently to Simon about Starring, it was almost impossible for me to believe it could be anything but a lie. I left her shit on the floor and went back to my original search strategy. I eliminated a few due to age and a couple because of money, but the majority of Gloria’s clients were thirtyto forty-year-old burghers.

During the shakedown I kept being drawn to Fran’s file. I thought it was just perversity, an opportunity to see for myself what her dreams were about. To see how badly I had misunderstood. To somehow atone for the damage I had done.

But I didn’t think Ernie Starring would brag about a girl so I started with the boys. Dr. James’ notion of scribblings must have referred to her handwriting; the notes detailed the anguish she listened to all day, every day. By the time I eliminated the first person from suspicion, I felt grateful my own records hadn’t been among those stolen. There was enough material in a person’s session notes to learn the worst.

A couple hours later, deep into somebody’s heartache, I closed the file, lit a cigarette, and retrieved Fran’s voluminous folder from the floor. A half-formed idea tugged at me. Since the beginning I had steadfastly kept the two cases parallel. Separate but equal. Holding Fran’s folder, I saw the possibility of their intersection. As uneasy as I felt diving into Fran’s psyche, something new began to drive me. Something more than guilty voyeurism.

It took almost two hours to read and reread the file. If I obscured the line between fantasy, dreams, and reality, I had my answers. I tried to think of what to do, but there was no divine guidance. As if by rote I stood, slowly walked to where I’d hung my holster, and strapped it on. It was almost evening and I felt like I was floating, suspended in an opium cloud. I shook myself, searching for other feelings, but found nothing except the urge to keep moving.

I reached for the phone and dialed Mrs. Sullivan’s number. “Mrs. S., I have to talk with Gloria. I don’t care if she is resting. Please.” She grumbled but responded to the tenaciousness of my tone.

“Hello, Matthew?” Gloria’s voice sounded furry. She had been sleeping.

“What do you know about Alex Hirsh?”

“Alex Hirsh? You mean Fran Roth’s father? I know quite a bit, actually.” The drift in her voice was replaced by an undercurrent of tension.

“Tell me.”

“Tell you what? What does he have to do with you?”

“Please, Gloria, just tell me about him. If you were talking to Eban what would you say? I’ll explain later.”

“From what I’m given to understand he’s had a difficult life. His father, Fran’s grandfather, died when Alex was quite young and his mother was unable or unwilling to parent him. He was dragged in and out of orphanages depending on whether relatives were in a position to care for him. According to Fran, he won’t talk about his mother with anyone.”

“Then how did Fran learn about his childhood?”

“From her mother. What is this about?”

“Why did you assume Fran’s dreams weren’t a reflection of reality?”

“What are you saying?” A note of defensiveness crept into her tone.

“I’m saying that her dreams may have related to actual experiences.”

“What makes you think I disagree with that?”

“Do you?”

“I don’t like your tone. Why are you asking about this? What are you trying to suggest?”

I brushed aside her feelings and her question. “Do you think Fran’s dreams were fact or fantasy?” It was work to keep from shouting.

When she spoke she sounded overwhelmed. “I’ve gone around in circles about that. When I first heard the dreams I leaned toward the idea of actual events and circumstances. But there were no memories. None. No matter how I investigated, questioned, or confronted, there were no specific memories. That still didn’t exclude a connection to reality but, with dreamwork, I have to stay openminded. By insisting that it had to be reality I would only negate exploring other alternatives.”

“What did Fran think?”

“She was absolutely adamant against the reality of it. Almost all her feelings about her father are positive. The few exceptions are in the notes.”

“The notes don’t give me the sound of her voice. They don’t let me know if she’s running from reality or discovering something new about it.”

“The few negative instances she spoke of were ambiguous. There might have been some cruelty surfacing, or simply overaggressiveness on the part of a father who didn’t understand when to stop. You sound so high and mighty. Don’t you think I’ve been concerned about this? What should I have done? We are talking about the past, you know.”

I heard myself sound flat and dull. “I don’t think you’re irresponsible. If anyone has been irresponsible it’s me. I’ve had the luxury of investigating the present and I’ve been blind.”

I shrugged off my guilt and honed in on the specific. “What you are telling me is: you may not be sure, but Fran is certain her nightmares have nothing to do with Alex?”

“No. That’s what I would have told you last week.”

“Huh?” I felt my face curl.

“Yesterday, while I was at the office, I got a call from Fran. Although she wouldn’t discuss it, she said she had realized that her dreams were based in fact. She acted terribly withdrawn and I worked just to make contact. Apparently she had been trying to get in touch for a couple of days without success. She never left a message or called Eban. She had been so absolute in her belief that the dreams sprang from her own sexual ambivalence that what she discovered just added more pain rather than any relief.”

The dread of my suspicions was replaced by a germinating anger. “Did she say why she changed her mind?”

“She refused. It was not the time to push but to settle her down and reassure her that, real or imagined, we would work it through. I know she is a friend of yours, so talking like this is terribly complicated. I’ve broken so many professional canons with you.” She paused. “I’m worried about her, Matthew. I gave her this number and she promised to call, but she hasn’t.”

I registered the information as if it came through the wrong end of a telescope, clear but distant. “Well, it’s too late to sweat the ethics.” I tried to be light but the words hung like an overdose of carbohydrates.

“This has to do with the robbery and murder, doesn’t it?” Her voice was small and almost plaintive. “Have I bungled so badly that it cost a life?”

I answered carefully. “I don’t see either of us responsible, Gloria. We did the best we could with what we knew.” I hoped my words worked better for her than they did for me.

“Are you saying that out of kindness?”

“I’m not feeling kind.”

“I don’t understand how all this fits together.”

I was impatient to get off the phone. “You will, but I can’t explain now. I have to go.”

“You can’t leave me floating like this. Are you going to find Fran? I’ve called her a number of times today but all I get is the damn answering machine.”

I avoided her questions. “There is nothing you can do now except be there if Fran needs you. When Fran needs you. After this is over you are going to be her rock, but right now you need to recuperate.”

“You sound strange, Matthew. You’ve got something in mind. I know you well enough to sense when you’re keeping something to yourself. It scares me.”

“Don’t be scared. Just get well.” When she started to say something I pushed the button and disconnected. I held onto the receiver and dialed Simon’s home number. No one there. I hung up without leaving a message. I called his office where, after listening to that machine, I did the same.

It didn’t really bother me that I couldn’t find them. There were other people I needed to see. I unholstered the gun, flicked open the cylinder, and checked that the chambers were loaded. I was reminded of my grandmother who nosed the stove three times a night to make sure there was no leaking gas.

I had no real plan; no idea of what I wanted to say. But I knew I was going. I had spent too much time crawling around in the gutters of people’s lives, and my own, to act like a social worker unrolling red tape.

I finished the last of the cocaine, hoping to loosen my frozen anger. The image of friends’ lives lurching toward shambles rekindled my intensity. I gathered my stuff, shoved the gun back into the holster, and made my way to the car. The weather was unusually cold; I could see steam rise from my naked hands. When the car refused to start I felt the anger coil just under my skin. I would have walked if necessary, but it turned over on the second try. Too many lives were careening out of control to sit still now.