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memories in a roomful of psychologists these days and you’ll have a riot. And if I had to pick sides—”
    â€œYou think it’s horseshit?”
    â€œDidn’t say that. But there’s a weird hysteria out there right now. I mean, something’s wrong when half the population of the United States remembers sacrificing babies by firelight.”
    The elevator door opened with a soft rush of air. Christensen boarded first.
    â€œI’ll buy that,” Downing said. “But what about the cases where it’s real? Does anybody listen now when somebody cries wolf?”
    Christensen ran a finger along the groove where the elevator doors met. “Guilt won’t work on me, Grady.”
    â€œSure it will.”
    The doors opened and Christensen stepped out. He turned and blocked Downing’s exit, holding the elevator door open with an extended arm. “I’ll talk to him. Once. Just to gauge his suggestibility. But repression as you’re imagining it is very rare. And even if there’s something to it, trying to recover the memories would pose incredible risks to this kid. Handle it wrong, you nudge him into psychosis. Understand what I’m telling you?”
    â€œSpell it out,” Downing said. “Don’t want any hard feelings from this.”
    â€œIf there’s any reason for me to talk to this kid more than once, he becomes my client. Our conversations are private. And I won’t endanger someone under my care.”
    â€œDeal. But you’d tell me anything relevant to the Primenyl case, right?”
    â€œThat’s up to the client.”
    The detective touched his arm with surprising gentleness. “You’ll talk to him, though?”
    â€œHave him call.”
    The detective stiff-armed the elevator door as it tried to rumble shut, then stepped out. He hefted the file folder, thick as a phone book, from the crook of his arm and offered it with both hands.
    â€œI’ll talk to Sonny tomorrow,” Downing said. “Thought you might want a little background.”
    Christensen eyed the file. “Such as?”
    â€œSonny’s juvenile court records.”
    Christensen looked around, relieved that no one was passing by. “You’re not supposed to have those, Grady. They’re private.”
    Downing shrugged. “It’s just copies.”
    â€œThat’s not the point.”
    â€œYou want it or not?”
    Christensen reached for the file. Its weight surprised him. Downing followed him to Lil’s desk.
    â€œAnybody call, Lil?”
    The receptionist gave Downing the stink-eye. She wouldn’t easily forgive him slipping in unnoticed this morning. Christensen marveled at how Downing could bring out the worst in the best people. “No,” she said. “But Brenna’s here. She was in Squirrel Hill for a deposition and said she’s taking the afternoon off. She’s offering to cook for you and the girls tonight, so I didn’t toss her out. Those are her groceries.”
    Two plastic bags from Frieda’s Deli in Squirrel Hill sat in one of the waiting-room chairs. Two students sat opposite the bags, fidgeting with brochures. One gave Christensen an uncertain smile.
    He felt a tug on his sleeve, sharper this time. Oh right, the Steelers jacket. Christensen pulled it off and Downing took it, but the detective’s face was frozen in an unmistakable leer as he absently wadded the jacket into a ball.
    â€œBrenna?”
    Christensen ignored the bait. “So you’ll have Sonny call me tomorrow?”
    Brenna Kennedy poked her blond-red head out Christensen’s office doorway, just down the hall. She saw him smile a lover’s smile, then disappeared again. She emerged in full stride with her overcoat in one hand and a briefcase in the other. Everything about her projected power except her face, which betrayed a deep well of compassion—a devastating combination for a defense