The good doctor wants another interview with me. So, I oblige. It’s all in his contract.

Benson: “Glad to see that you’re feeling better, Sean.”

I take a seat next to him in the drinking room. So many bottles of booze. “Thanks.”

Benson tosses his right leg over the other. “I’d like to take this opportunity to gather more information about you.”

My shoulders slouch down the back of my chair. “Oh? Like what?”

He jots some notes on a page in his three-ring binder. “Typically, a traumatic event triggers the onset of gifts such as yours.”

Those eyes, usually calming, now bore holes into me.

Benson: “Do you recall anything that might coincide with the arrival of (he glances down at his binder) Norm?”

Grumbles of frustration. My eyes glide across the rows of crystal bottles on the back wall, and then back to him. Doc sits in silence, awaiting my answer.

What? Do you want to hear that I was abused as a kid? Locked in closets at school for being different? Do you really want to hear about me being molested? Go to hell, doc. I’ll be damned if I’m telling anyone that stuff.

I shove my clammy hands into my pockets. “Nope. Nothing like that.”

Benson: “No?”

He knows better. He still won’t have the pleasure. “Nope.”

He shifts legs and scribbles notes. “Are you religious, Sean?”

His prodding has pissed me off. “Are you?”

Benson: “I’m not at the center of this case study. You are.”

I shift my attention out the window to the swaying limbs of the huge tree in the front yard. He strikes me as the hypocritical sort. It’s all right, doc. You don’t have to say a word. I can hear everything that you and Patty say every night on the other side of the walls.

Benson: “Back to the question. Are you religious?”

“Sort of, I guess. I believe in God and stuff.”

Benson: “Do you go to church?”

“Not any more. I used to as a kid.”

Benson: “Which type?”

“Baptist, I think.”

His pen pokes the page. “Okay. How about your parents? Where are they from?”

“My dad’s from upstate New York, and my mom’s from West Virginia. They met in school there.”

Benson: “Where’s the Douglas family from, originally?”

My gaze drifts to the crown molding. “Let’s see. Ireland, I think.”

Benson: “You said that you believe in God. Do you also believe in Satan, Sean?”

That look! What a messed up question to ask with that expression all over you. “Sure.”

Benson: “Do you think Satan’s in this house?”

I ease up in my chair. “What’s in this place is far worse.”