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Janessa."
    He'd done this to me because of my husband's research?
    "You must convince your husband to relook at his experiments, find his false presumptions." Passion throbbed in the man's words. "I want a very public announcement from Dr. Brock McNeil, stating he is utterly convinced chronic Lyme does exist as an active infection. That the medical community and insurance companies must change their narrow-minded, backward ways of dealing with the disease."
    Sure, no problem. I would have laughed had I possessed the energy. No one convinced Brock of anything. Not at work, not at home. Brock McNeil was always right.
    "Janessa, do you hear me?"
    "I . . . yes."
    "You will do this."
    "What if I can't?"
    "Of course you can. Your husband will want you well. He loves you, doesn't he?"
    Did he anymore? I thought of all the late-night meetings in the past few months. Brock's growing coldness.
    "How do I get well?" I whispered.
    "Once you're finally diagnosed? Which will take some time, since your husband will fight you on that, too. With long-term, high dosage antibiotic treatment. The very treatment doctors like your husband sneer at, and insurance companies love refusing to pay for."
    What did he mean—once I was "finally" diagnosed? "How long will it take to get better?"
    "Depends on when you start treatment. Months. A year, maybe more. And you'll get a lot worse before you get better."
    A year? And worse?
    "You see, Janessa"—he spoke as if savoring every word—"you have no easy case."
    "What?"
    "The ticks that bit you carried spirochetes that cause Lyme— and three coinfections."
    I raised myself upright, my tone hardening. "You're nothing but a liar. None of this is true. I have the flu. I'll get better soon."
    "Your kitchen counters are granite, aren't they, Janessa? Sort of a bluish gray. At least that's the best I could make them out in the dark."
    I went absolutely still.
    "Your daughter, Lauren, sleeps with the door open. Her bedroom is the second on the left at the top of the stairs. Lovely canopied bed. Large stuffed lion in the corner. Very cute."
    My fingers gripped the phone. Pain shot through my knuckles, but I hardly noticed. "I'm calling the police."
    "You do that. These calls won't be traced to anyone. And I left no sign of a break-in when I picked the lock on your kitchen sliding glass door. Meanwhile, don't forget: you'll still. Be. Sick."
    I heard a click —and the line fell silent.

Chapter 5
    MINUTES SLID BY AS I SAT LIKE A STONE. ALL OF THIS—the man stalking me, his claims—was too bizarre to be real.
    The police. They should know.
    I started to press the talk button on the phone, then hesitated. What would I tell them? What proof would I have of anything?
    Didn't matter. These calls had to be documented.
    But my body did not want to comply. I didn't have the energy to meet with a police officer, relate the whole story. My limbs felt like dishrags. And what would I tell Lauren? No way was I going to scare my daughter.
    God, what do I do?
    I stared at the texture-painted wall before me . . . and my mind numbed out. My vision glazed, my eyes looking through the light blue. I hung there, telephone in my hand, knowing I was supposed to do something, that a terrible event had occurred. My thoughts reached out . . . groped. Felt only the spider-webbed corners of my mind.
    Dusty awareness puffed through my brain. Call someone.
    A small gasp escaped me.
    I focused on the phone. My forefinger hit the programmed digit to call Brock's direct line at the office. Brock absolutely adored Lauren. If he thought his daughter was in danger, there would be no end to what he'd do.
    His voice machine answered. I wavered, then hung up.
    I closed my eyes, trying to think. I'd tell Brock when he came home. Lauren could watch TV while we talked privately. Brock would know how to proceed.
    A sudden thought burst in my head. Lauren wasn't safe here. That man had broken into our home. He could do it again.