On Borrowed Time by David Rosenfelt

“If I have it, it’s yours.”
    “Did I talk to you about a story I was working on?”
    He thought for a while, trying to remember, then started skimming through his notepad. “Yes, though not in much detail. It was in the context of your saying that these fantasies were getting in the way of a story you were pursuing, affecting your concentration.”
    “Did I say what the story was?”
    He was reading from the pad now; none of this was from memory. “You mentioned a man named Lassiter. At least I had the sense it was a man; I’m not sure if you actually said that. You made a comment about returning to your journalistic roots, but you didn’t explain what you meant.”
    I knew exactly what I would have meant by that. Sean Lassiter was the indirect subject of the first major story I ever worked on, though it was left to other writers to really bring it to fruition. My piece was an intimate study of a young woman who had taken a prescription medication for a kidney infection.
    Within three weeks she was paralyzed, and she and her family were positive that the drug was at fault, though they did not have the resources to fully explore their legal options. We had a friend in common, so when I heard about her I wrote about her plight, and I thought that would be that.
    That wasn’t that. It created a mini-stir, and set other, more experienced reporters on to the story. A scandal was uncovered, and bribery was alleged between the small, very successful biochemical company that developed the drug, and the FDA. Nothing was ever proven, but high-level people at the FDA resigned from their jobs, and the biochemical company shut down.
    The head of that company was Sean Lassiter, and he came after me, both in the press and through intermediaries. I was actually told that Lassiter was going to “get” me; it wasn’t a physical threat so much as an inference that he would use his substantial resources to destroy my career.
    That revenge never happened, and by all indications, Lassiter had landed comfortably on his feet. He managed to stay out of jail, and apparently to put away enough money to live very comfortably for a very long time.
    I couldn’t imagine why I would be chasing another story about Sean Lassiter, and Garber could not provide any further help.
    “Why did I come here?” I asked. “I mean, why you? How did I come to you?”
    “You said it was by reputation. And a motivating factor was the work I have done in the field of memory. Apparently you had researched it and read some of my papers in the field.”
    “I was worried about my memory?” I asked.
    “You were floundering, Richard. You were forgetting things that had just happened, and remembering things that hadn’t. You were having increasing difficulty distinguishing between what was real and what was fantasy. It scared you, and you were looking for help. That was understandable and nothing to be ashamed of. It was actually a healthy reaction.”
    “So it’s possible that eventually the fantasy took over, and the reality was wiped from my mind?”
    He nodded. “If your mind needed to do that to protect itself, then it might certainly do exactly that.”
    “Protect itself from what?” I asked.
    “That is what we would work to find out.”
    That was an invitation to become his patient on a regular basis, so we could explore the depths of my feelings … blah, blah, blah. I wasn’t having any of it. “Jen was … is … real.”
    “The mind creates its own reality.”
    I shook my head. “No, I mean actually real. Flesh-and-blood real.”
    “I think on some level you know better than that,” he said. “Just the fact that no one else in your life has any recollection of her proves that to you on a conscious level. Unfortunately, the conscious level is not enough.”
    “What about Allie and her sister?”
    “Richard, I’m going to say something to you, to ask you a question, that you will not like hearing.”
    “I have quite a bit of