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encoded intern’s badge before the week’s out.”
    She clips the pass to her blouse, then follows him into the elevator.
    Foletta holds three fingers up to a camera mounted above his head. The doors close. “Have you been here before? Are you familiar with the layout?”
    “No. Dr. Reinike and I only spoke by phone.”
    “There are seven floors. Administration and central security’s on the first floor. The main station controls both the staff and resident elevators. Level 2 houses a small medical unit for the elderly and terminally ill. Level 3 is where you’ll find our dining area and rec rooms. It also accesses the mezzanine, yard, and therapy rooms. Levels 4, 5, 6, and 7 house residents.” Foletta chuckles. “Dr. Blackwell refers to them as ‘customers.’ An interesting euphemism, don’t you think, considering we haul them in here wearing handcuffs.”
    They exit the elevator, passing a security station identical to the one on the first floor. Foletta waves, then follows a short corridor to his office. Cardboard boxes are piled everywhere, stuffed with files, framed diplomas, and personal items.
    “Excuse the mess, I’m still getting situated.” Foletta removes a computer printer from a chair, motioning for Dominique to sit, then squeezes uncomfortably behind his own desk, leaning back in his leather chair to afford his belly room.
    He opens her personnel file. “Hmm. Completing your doctorate at Florida State, I see. Get out to many football games?”
    “Not really.” Use the opening . “You look like you’ve played a little football before.”
    It is a good parlay, causing Foletta’s cherub face to light up. “Fighting Blue Hens of Delaware, class of ‘79. Starting nose tackle. Would have been a lower-round NFL draft pick if I hadn’t torn my knee up against Lehigh.”
    “What made you get into forensic psychiatry?”
    “Had an older brother who suffered from a pathological obsession. Always in trouble with the law. His psychiatrist was a Delaware alumnus and a big football fan. Used to bring him down to the locker room after games. When I injured my knee, he pulled a few strings to get me into grad school.” Foletta leans forward, placing her file flat on the desk. “Let’s talk about you. I’m curious. There are several other facilities closer to FSU than ours. What brings you down here?”
    Dominique clears her throat. “My parents live over in Sanibel. It’s only a two-hour ride from Miami. I don’t get home very often.”
    Foletta guides a thick index finger across her personnel file. “Says here you’re originally from Guatemala.”
    “Yes.”
    “How’d you end up in Florida?”
    “My parents—my real parents died when I was six. I was sent to live with a cousin in Tampa.”
    “But that didn’t last?”
    “Is this important?”
    Foletta looks up. The eyes are no longer sleepy. “I’m not much for surprises, Intern Vazquez. Before assigning residents, I like to know my own staff’s psyche. Most residents don’t give us much of a problem, but it’s important to remember that we’re still dealing with some violent individuals. Safety’s a priority with me. What happened in Tampa? How was it that you ended up in a foster home?”
    “Suffice it to say that things didn’t work out with my cousin.”
    “Did he rape you?”
    Dominique is taken back by his directness. “If you must know—yes. I was only ten at the time.”
    “You were under the care of a psychiatrist?”
    She stares back at him. Stay cool, he’s testing you . “Yes, until I was seventeen.”
    “Does it bother you to talk about it?”
    “It happened. It’s over. I’m sure it influenced my choice of career, if that’s where this is leading.”
    “Your interests, too. Says here you have a second-degree black belt in tae kwon do. Ever use it?”
    “Only in tournaments.”
    The lids open wide, the blue eyes baiting her with their intensity. “Tell me, Intern Vazquez, do you imagine your