“You could’ve made an appointment,” he told her, still frowning. “Do you want to go inside?”

She shook her head curtly. “It’s not that kind of talk.”

Today he looked like the old Dr. Lee, wearing his cozy cardigan and canvas sneakers. This was the doctor who’d persuaded her to open up to him, to share her deepest darkest secret with him. This was the doctor she’d trusted.

But she knew the truth . . . this Dr. Lee was a fake.

His eyes narrowed, and even his stance changed as he approached her, his posture becoming more rigid and self-assured. “What kind of talk is it then?” His voice was lower too, laced with warning. She understood the meaning well enough: Watch your step.

But she was past watching her step now.

“Who are you, Dr. Lee?” She didn’t tell him why she was asking, or reveal what she knew, she merely asked that simple question. Who are you? “Or should I call you Jimmy? Who are you really?”

He stopped where he was, and his body tensed. Violet realized she’d crossed a line and was now wandering into tricky territory. She watched him as he considered her question, and she couldn’t help noting the way his nostrils flared ever so slightly, and his hands—probably without even realizing it—curled into fists.

She felt every bit as strained as he looked, and she wondered if her nostrils flared too. Her chest was constricted, squeezing the very breath from her lungs.

“What do you know?” he asked, his words whisper quiet. “What is it you think you know, Violet, because, trust me, this isn’t a road you want to go down.”

Without meaning to, she took a step back, stung by the vehemence in his tone. Maybe he was right, she thought. Maybe this was better left alone.

But then she remembered how her grandmother had been trapped, the same way she was. “No,” she mouthed at first. And then, this time louder, with more conviction. “It’s exactly the road I want to go down,” she insisted.

She reached into her purse and drew out the photograph, her heart hammering loudly, painfully. “This,” she said. “This is what I know.”

Dr. Lee stared at the image, and Violet waited.

Her hand was trembling, and she knew he noticed it too, but she continued to hold the photo out, and continued to wait for him to speak first. The ball was in his court. She was the one who needed answers now.

Eventually, he moved, his hands unclenching as he reached for the picture, taking it from her fingers. And still, he remained silent. Still, he just stared at the faces in the photograph.

“She was a lovely woman”—he didn’t look up when he said it—“your grandmother. Funny and warm. Irreverent. People liked her. I liked her,” he added.

Violet wasn’t prepared for the flood of emotions that discussing her grandmother would cause. She’d thought she was ready for whatever he threw her way—threats, warnings, challenges, even anger. But what she hadn’t expected was the kind of tenderness she heard in his voice.

She had to remind herself that he was a master at manipulating others, that he’d fooled her before.

“So that is you? In that picture? You were part of the Circle of Seven?”

He let out a derisive laugh. “The Circle of Seven? I haven’t heard that name in years. What a joke. They had no business naming themselves . . . naming us. We weren’t a club or a team, not the way they wanted us to be. We were just a bunch of people with uncommon abilities.”

“Like us?” Violet bit out. “Like the team you won’t let me quit?”

Dr. Lee seemed to snap out of whatever reverie he’d been lost in, as if remembering he wasn’t alone with his own thoughts, that Violet was still there too. “No.” He said it quickly, with a jolt of finality. “Not like you kids at all. We had no idea what we were capable of, what we could do with our abilities. No one did, really. We were floundering then, struggling to figure out how to work together. You kids are better at it. You kids have found a purpose and are using your abilities to help people. To stop killers and solve crimes.”

She nodded, not sure why she was agreeing with him. But in the back of her mind she reminded herself of what he could do. She couldn’t let him manipulate her emotions.

“Does Sara know? Does she know that her mother was in the Circle with you? With my grandmother?”

Whatever advantage Dr. Lee felt like he’d regained slipped as his composure faltered. “Sara’s . . . ? How did you . . .” And then his lips pressed together. “Rafe,” he whispered menacingly.

He didn’t remind her about his warnings, but cold sweat broke out on her upper lip as she waited for him to tell her she’d broken the rules, that her family was in imminent danger.

“Who else have you told?”

She couldn’t lie. There was no going back now. “I know that Krystal’s mom was in the Circle too. I know that it’s not a coincidence that you found all of us. And I know . . .” she said, her eyes flitting nervously to his. “I know that Muriel isn’t dead.” Violet held her breath as she waited for his response, expecting the worst.

But he simply nodded, his expression smoothing, growing solemn. “Yes . . . Sam’s grandmother. I remember when I first heard the news that she was dead. I went to her funeral, you know, just like everyone else did. Officially, we were told it was a car accident. Unofficially, it would have been impossible not to hear the whispers of the others in the Circle; I knew what they believed. And their suspicions were the beginning of the end for us. As trust disintegrated, we began to turn on one another. I tried my best to . . . ease their worries. But my reach only extended so far. Eventually, we had to disband.”