“No, I don’t want my wife to know about this, yet. No. I’m not discussing this with my wife. There’s no need to freak her out. Um, but I will let you know as soon as possible about your protection services and all that”—I had gotten up, and my knees were shaking—“and I really don’t feel well so . . . um, I’m sorry, I really don’t feel well.” The room was now filled with despair, torrents of it. I knew even then, half-drunk on vodka, sobering up at a rapid pace, that Kimball would not be able to rescue anyone and that more crime scenes would be darkened with blood. Fear kept bolting me upright. I suddenly realized that I was straining not to defecate. I had to grip the desk for support. Kimball stood uneasily beside me. I was of no use at that point.

A card was handed out with various phone numbers on it. I was instructed to call if anything “suspicious” or “abnormal” (those two words uttered so soothingly that they could have existed in a nursery rhyme) came up, but I couldn’t hear anything. I blindly walked Kimball out to his car while mumbling my thanks. And at that moment Jayne pulled into the driveway in the Porsche. When she saw me with Kimball she sat in the car and watched, pretending to be on her cell phone. Once Kimball drove away she bounded out of the car, smiling, and walked over to me, still beaming from the new beginnings we had promised each other that morning. She asked me who Kimball was and when I told her he was a student she believed me and took my hand and guided me back into our house. I didn’t tell Jayne the truth about Kimball because I didn’t want to scare her, and because I thought that if I did I would be asked to leave, and so I kept silent, adding something else to the list of all the things I had already hidden from her.

The rest of the evening was a daze. During dinner, while sitting at the table, the kids conceded that they’d had a good time at the mall and regaled Jayne with various scenes from the movie we saw, and then there was a long discussion about Victor (who didn’t want to sleep in the house anymore but whose panicked barking outside at night made this demand impossible to meet). The only thing that had any impact—the one thing that broke through my fog—was when Sarah brought the Terby over to me, though I don’t remember where I was at the time. Was I slouched in the armchair in front of the plasma TV? Or had it been during dinner, sitting with my family while zoning out on a plate scattered with zucchini and mushrooms, and where I was trying to smile and stay interested in the moment, concentrating on the flow of information being passed around? (I tried to appear casual by humming to myself, but this was maddening and I stopped just as casually when I saw Robby scowl.) All I know is that I was somewhere in that house when Sarah brought the horrible Terby over and asked me why its claws were encrusted with what looked like dried crimson paint and if I could help her wash off those claws in the kitchen sink. (“They’re dirty, Daddy,” Sarah explained, while I nodded dumbly. Yes, I remember that exchange. And I also remembered how bad the thing had smelled.) There was a football game on TV that I would have watched any other night but when I shut myself in the office and dialed Aimee Light’s number again, Jayne opened the door and suddenly guided me upstairs, and she was murmuring things to me as she led me back into the master bedroom and past the flickering sconces, and I could tell by her velvet smile that she was expecting something, a promise of some kind. I felt the same tug but couldn’t follow through—it was too late. I was supposed to see my reflection in her and simply couldn’t. I had taken an Ambien and finished the rest of the Ketel One and after easing myself into bed I was soon sleeping soundly, freed from having to deal with my wife’s desires, the scratching at the side of the house, the furniture that was rearranging itself downstairs and the darkening carpet it rested on, and as the four of us slept a madman I had created roamed the county while a cloud bank settled over the town and the moon somewhere above it was causing the sky to glow. He’s back. I had whispered those two words to myself that dark night spent shivering in the guest room, replaying what I’d seen out in the desolate field behind our house. I had involuntarily been thinking of my father and not Patrick Bateman.

But I had been wrong. Because now they were both back.

SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 2

12. the dinner party

I woke up in the master bedroom for what seemed like the first morning in weeks, stretching pleasurably in the empty bed, refreshed by the Ambien from last night, and in the kitchen Jayne was preparing brunch, and I took a leisurely shower before getting dressed to join the family. I stared at my reflection in the mirror before heading downstairs—no bags under the eyes, my skin was clear—and realized, shockingly, that I was actually hungry and looking forward to eating something. Sunday brunch was the one meal of the week with no dietary restrictions: sesame seed bagels and cream cheese, bacon omelets and sausage, and Krispy Kreme doughnuts and French toast for Robby (who again mumbled about the scratching sounds outside his door last night) and hot chocolate and pancakes for Sarah (who seemed withdrawn and tired, probably due to the new cocktail of meds that had been prescribed last month and were now finally kicking in), but because of the reshoots Jayne had only a banana soy milk smoothie and tried to downplay her anxiety about leaving for Toronto next week. For once, I was the one member of the family doing okay on that Sunday. I was mellow and content, even after leafing through the papers, which were filled with follow-ups on the Maer Cohen disappearance, as well as lengthy recaps of the (now) thirteen boys who had vanished in the last five months. Their photos took up an entire page in the County section of the local paper, along with physical descriptions, the dates they disappeared, and the places they were last seen. (Tom Salter rowing a canoe on Morningside Lake; Cleary Miller and Josh Wolitzer outside the post office on Elroy Avenue; the last image of Edward Burgess was of him walking serenely through the Midland airport, caught on film by the security cameras.) It was a yearbook page for the missing, and I simply put the paper aside. Once Robby and Sarah went upstairs Jayne and I traded thoughts on how to get out of the Allens’ dinner that night, but it was too late. It was easier to just suffer through it than to blow them off, so I planned my day accordingly until seven o’clock, at which time we’d leave.