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“. . . conventional wisdom states most conversion symptoms disappear within two weeks in hospitalized patients, which I suppose bodes well. Twenty to twenty-five percent of patients have a recurrence within a year, sometimes with further recurrences thereafter, but the statistics aren’t really there yet, in terms of prediction. Still, you’ve got all the hallmarks of a favourable recovery—acute onset, clearly identifiable stress beforehand, plus a very short time between onset and treatment. We could start this afternoon, if you wanted.”

“Sure. Hell, why not start now?”

“Well . . . there are some people outside who’d like to speak to you first, unfortunately. From the police.”

“What?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so. That’s why you’re still here, actually—they don’t want you going home, not till they clear what they’re still calling the crime scene.”

“Crime scene?” Again, he fell silent; unavoidably, probably, though he must’ve known how off-putting it was for someone in my position. “But why . . . just what happened this time while I was out?”

Another pause, though shorter, this time. “I think they’ll probably want to fill you in on that themselves,” he said at last.

“What exactly is it you were trying to do with Mr. Sidlo, Ms. Cairns?”

The lead detective, who’d introduced herself as Susan Correa, had a businesslike alto voice: Ontario native, stringently polite, though the question held an inherent challenge. Her hand had felt firm enough in mine to put her anywhere from thirties to forties, but that was as far as I’d be willing to go, if asked.

“Interviewing him,” I replied, quickly; wasn’t a lie if it was the truth, at least halfway. “For a project Safie—Miss Hewsen—and I pitched to the NFA, the National Film Archive.”

“Before the fire, I take it.”

“Yeah, that’s right. Our liaison there was one of the casualties, which means it’s back-burnered, for now. But Safie had already tracked down Sidlo, and I wanted to keep going—guy was really old, so time was a factor.”

“Understandable. I must admit, we’re somewhat surprised you’d want to go ahead and do it while your son was still in hospital, though.”

I could feel my face redden. “His grandparents were with him, both sides, and we all had our phones. They knew to call us if anything changed.”

“And has it?”

“I don’t know. You’re the first people I’ve talked to, besides Dr. Harrison.” A beat. “Actually, I’m kind of surprised my husband wasn’t here when I first woke up.”

“Mmm, well, we’re sorry for that. That’s because—”

“He’s in custody,” her partner’s voice intruded, from further back—Valens, he’d called himself. “Her too, Safie Hewsen. Your colleague.”

“What?” I blurted, stomach lurching, suddenly all cold acid. “Custody—like jail? Why?”

“Not jail,” Correa hastened to assure me, playing classic bon cop to Valens’s full-on asshole. “They’re neither under arrest, just being questioned down at 54 Division—making statements, so we can figure out what happened. They’re free to go at any time, as I’m certain they’ve been informed.”

Valens: “We’d have you there, too, believe me, it wasn’t for your . . . condition.”

“You think I’m making this shit up?”

“Oh no, no, no—not the first two seizures, anyway; that’s documented. Kinda convenient, you having another one, though, isn’t it? Under the circumstances.”

“Convenient,” I repeated, trying my best to stay calm. I took a breath, made myself wait. “I wouldn’t call it that.”

“We really don’t mean to be insensitive, Ms. Cairns,” Correa said. To which I just snorted.

“Really?” I replied. “’Cause it kinda sounds to me like you do.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way, ma’am.”

“Okay, that’s nice. Thanks.”

She was probably making some sort of placatory headshake gesture right then, not that I’d know. Valens kept on moving around the room like he was pacing, trying either to trip me up or intimidate me, or both; the way my head snapped to follow him every time his shoes clopped across the floor must’ve looked pretty fucking funny, I guessed, though the casual disorientation factor was already getting old. Still, they call them micro aggressions for a reason, right?

“This Sidlo,” Valens began after a moment. “Like you said, he was old—in a nursing home, right? You get permission to take him to your place?”