The buzzer buzzed. I answered it, "Hello."

"Hello? Mrs. Dana Winslow?"

"Yes."

"Police. May we come up?"

I didn't think Police asked permission, but what do I know? After my stalker problem was resolved last winter I couldn't remember anything happening to interest the Police. Unknown to them, it was a battle of wits, and I won by one wit, beating the police and Dr. Morrows.

"Yeah. "I'll check your IDs before I open the door."

'Yes'm."

I pushed the door button and heard a faint, distant 'bzzzzzzzzzt.' A minute later the elevator door whumped open and a man and a woman stood before my door, badges in hand. I didn't recognize them, a good sign. I let them in.

Sgt. Rossio and Probationary Police Officer Taracs sat on the couch, and I sat on my easy chair. I waited. They waited.

"Mrs. Winslow, we're here about the kidnapping of Jaxon Charles Green, aged 22 months, seven days ago, that is, Saturday the 1st, from Jose's Bodega, about 7:15 PM."

My blood ran cold. I wasn't there. Why did they want to see me? I shopped at Jose's. Lottery tickets, cheap wine, quick foods, fashion magazines, and so on. I nodded but had sense enough to remain quiet: danger here.

Rossio looked up from his iPad. Like the other police I'd had run-ins with in the last few years, he was observant. I remained quiet and didn't display any emotion.

"The child has not been found, nor has there been any ransom demand, or sighting."

I nodded again.

"Have you heard anything about the kidnapping?" the woman asked.

"Yeah," I said, forcing myself to relax, a trick I had mastered. "It's on the news every night. No breaks in the case, isn't that how you describe it?"

"Yes," she said. "No leads. That's why we're here. You were identified as a witness, speaking to the woman who took Jaxon." My heart began to pound. "On camera, known to Jose as someone who shopped there occasionally. You bought lottery tickets that night."

"Did I? You must be mistaken. I was home that night."

The sergeant shook his head. "Mrs. Winslow, you were positively identified. We want you to come to the station for an interview. Will you come now?"

"Yes." No choice. "Let me get my jacket."

I got my ski jacket and my green knitted hat that pulled down over my ears, my scarf and sweater. I put the jacket on correctly, the smooth blue fabric out and the reversible sherpa inside, as it should be.

I locked the door behind me and followed the officers to the elevator. Soon we walked down the slippery steps in the falling snow. I got in the police cruiser and we drove off.

I wasn't at the bodega that night. I don't remember the woman with the baby. Jackie? No, Jaxon. I knew of the kidnapping from the news. Pity. I can't help them. I can't. I dare not.

We drove through Brooklyn. I rubbed my cold hands together for warmth and checked my pocket for my gloves. I pulled them out and slipped the left one on. My fingers caught on a paper and I removed it. A lottery ticket. One number circled. Not a winner. Dated the day of Jaxon's kidnapping.

I wanted to faint or throw up or jump out of the car, but I had to sit still, looking out the car window at the stores lit up for Christmas, people walking, until my heart slowed down and I could breathe normally again. I put the ticket in a tissue and crumpled it. I'd throw it away at the police station.

It was her. My stalker, my doppelganger, my haunt. The one who'd caused me all that trouble with the police. She was back, trying to get my life again. She bought the ticket at Jose's that night, pretending to me be, wanting my life. She'd never have it. I got rid of her with treatment from Dr. Morrows, a psychiatrist who specialized in my illness—my former illness. He cured me and retired. I chose him because he was very successful with my illness and due to retire and move to Texas. Far from me.

At Brooklyn's 96th Precinct we passed a ladies' room. I said I needed to use it. I tore the lottery ticket into tiny bits and flushed them.

I sat in an interrogation room with Sgt. Rossio. Officer Taracs was undoubtedly observing from somewhere else. I knew the drill.

Lt. Orwell entered and again I was faint and sick. I took deep breaths until I felt better. He'd handled the stalking from her and figured out something of the problem. He had one of the sharpest minds I'd ever met, and I'd met a few. He was deductive and intuitive and never forgot anything, a dangerous combination. He frightened me more than she or Dr. Morrows could ever do.

He was a handsome African American in his early 30s. He'd been a detective sergeant when he handled my case. I went over what I knew of him so I wouldn't make any mistakes. He was married to a teacher with one child and another had been on the way. I wondered if he'd had a boy or a girl. Maybe I'd ask. Act normal.

He shook my hand. He motioned to a seat and I sat down. I was hot and didn't want to sweat. Nervous sweating was something she didn't do. He might notice. He would notice. And remember. And suspect. I took off my jacket and sweater and wiped sweat off my face.

"Mrs. Winslow, thank you for coming in."

I nodded.

"How have you been doing since we resolved the case of Poppy Fairchild." He nodded. "Your stalker. When we figured out what she was doing, we referred you to Dr. Morrows for treatment. He reported that you were cured. How have you been doing?"

I smiled, more of a grimace. "Better. I work from home, make good money. Lenny and I see a marriage therapist every week, but he's not comfortable with us living together again. He put the divorce on hold, at least for now. We date once or twice a week. Getting to know each other again."

"Do you go out? Dr. Morrows said it was important that you build a life, with connections."

"I do. I joined a gym. I'm taking a class in Spanish, and I socialize with some of my classmates. I hope to take a trip to Puerto Rico one day." I faked a shy smile. "With Lenny."

"That's where you went for your honeymoon. Beautiful island. My brother-in-law is Puerto Rican."

"Yes, lovely island," I said, although I had no idea other than pictures.

He leaned back, watching me, as though I'd committed a crime and he had all the time in the world to wait for me to confess. Ha. "We asked you to come in because you were identified at Jose's Bodega, talking to the woman who kidnapped Jaxon Green."

I shook my head. "You're mistaken." I lowered my eyes so he couldn't see me lying. "It must have been some other night."

"No, Mrs. Winslow. Let's watch the security film. Sergeant."

Rossio tapped a laptop and a film loaded on a TV began to play. Inside Jose's a shabbily dressed woman came through the door, leading a small child by the hand and pushing a stroller with a toddler so wrapped in warm clothes he was a puffy bundle. She parked the stroller within reach of a display of boxed Christmas cookies and walked to the back of the narrow store to the butcher's counter with the other child. She spoke to the butcher, laughing and nodding.

A woman entered and stopped by the stroller, staring at the child. He had snatched a box of cookies from the display and was gnawing it open. He was bound and determined to have the cookies. The woman typed something into her cell phone.

Poppy appeared from the back of the store, holding a few packages. She paid at the counter, talking to Jose. He pointed to a notice on the lottery board. She bought a lottery ticket. She stopped to look at a magazine.

The woman took the child out of the stroller and pried the box of cookies away from him. He started to fuss, and she opened the box and gave him one. He munched on it. He must have been very hungry. The woman got a bottle of milk from a cooler and paid for the cookies and milk.

Poppy walked out, holding the door for woman carrying the toddler. The film showed them talking on the street for a few minutes. A car, probably gray or white, pulled up and the woman spoke to the driver. The driver put a baby seat in the car. She put the baby in, got in and the car drove off. Poppy walked out of sight in the direction of my apartment, never to be seen again, hopefully.

The mother returned to the front of the store with her purchases and froze when she saw the empty stroller. She ran over to it and patted around as though her kid had turned invisible and she had to feel for him. Her mouth opened and shut as though she were screaming. The woman ran around the store, dragging the young child. Jose came out from behind the counter. She ran up to him, crying and pointing to the stroller. The clip ended.

"That's not me."

"You're wearing the same jacket," Orwell said, "reversed with the sherpa outside."

I shrugged. I was good at this. "A lot of jackets are reversible. The scarf and hat she's wearing are white or light. Mine is green."

Orwell was silent, observing. I'd give anything to know what he was thinking.

"Mrs. Winslow, Jose Romero knows you. You buy lottery tickets from him regularly. Last winter you won $500 on a scratcher and he posted it in his window." More silence. "He pointed the notice out to you on the film."

I was trapped. Or was I? "I buy there regularly. I don't remember the woman and the baby. There's lots of women and babies." I looked at him as innocently as I could. "It's a poorer neighborhood. Lots of young families."

Orwell watched me. "Please try to remember. Mrs. Gomez is crying for her baby. Her husband works two jobs to support his family. Their food stamps came in that day, and she went to Jose's to buy groceries."

Like I cared. "Sorry. I've been there so many times. I don't much remember one visit from another."

"Did you win on the lottery ticket?"

"No, only one..."

"One?"

"One number. I threw that ticket out." I waited. Sweat dripped from my nose.

Orwell nodded. "Can you remember anything about the car she got in? It wasn't a taxi."

"No, not more than you'd see on the film." Safe answer.

He kept questioning, gently and relentlessly. I gave answers based on what I'd seen on the film.

"Was the kidnapper white?"

"Yes," I hoped. "Was the mother white?"

"Yeah, with a Cuban husband," Orwell said.

I couldn't tell him anything about the car, or what the woman was wearing, except it was a dark coat with a scarf on her head. I could tell that from the film.

My nightmare continued. Finally, Orwell said. "We'd like to take you to Jose's. See if that jogs your memory."

I sighed. That was the last thing I wanted, or very nearly, but I couldn't give a good reason for refusing.

An hour later Orwell, Rossio and I walked into Jose's. The cookie display was still there, sugar cookies sprinkled with red or green sugar.

Jose came from the back of the store to greet us. "Hello, how can I help you, lieutenant?"

"Mr. Romero, Mrs. Winslow doesn't remember being here the night the child was kidnapped."

Jose gaped at me. "Dana, you bought a ticket. You said you wanted to be lucky again."

"Yes, I did buy a ticket."

"You held the door for the woman who took the child. You must remember."

I shook my head and lied. "Yeah, there was a woman with a child."

This went on for a bit, but Jose couldn't jog memories I didn't have. We returned to the precinct. Orwell watched me in the car the entire time, thinking who knows what.

At the Precinct we walked down a different hall and got into a small elevator. The three of us were a crowd. We got out and walked to the interrogation room. They put me in the room and stayed outside for a few minutes.

Orwell and Rossio came in and sat down.

"We need the truth," said Orwell.

"I can't tell you what I don't know," I said, eyes wide.

Orwell leaned forward. "Poppy."

"Please. Don't call me by her name. I went through hell with her. Dr. Morrows said I was cured."

Orwell shook his head. "Dr. Morrow said you needed to continue therapy with another therapist and treatment for your phobias. I don't know how you fooled Dr. Morrows. How you convinced him you were Dana Winslow. Your, that is, Dana's husband felt it, although he couldn't figure it out."

I trembled. "No! We're getting back together. He loves me! Not her!"

"He loves Dana. The woman he married."

"No, no, no. I'm Dana."

Softly and quietly and without any doubt, Orwell said, "You're Poppy Fairchild. Dana's other personality. Dissociative Identity Disorder. The personality she used to deal with the trauma and abuse she suffered when her mother and her mother's boyfriend ran away because he was wanted for robbery and assault. They took six-year-old Dana with them."

He couldn't prove I was Poppy.

Orwell said "Dana had terrible claustrophobia. That was one of the reasons she developed you, to deal with the claustrophobia. You don't have claustrophobia. Dana always refused to get in that tiny elevator."

I muttered, "I've just gotten better, some."

Orwell shook his head. "We called the psychiatrist Dr. Morrows referred you to. You never saw her. I don't know how you took over and kept your host under. You somehow convinced Dr. Morrows you were the real Dana Winslow."

"I AM DANA WINSLOW! Poppy Fairchild is just someone I invented to deal with what happened all those years ago."

"Dr. Morrows is on his way. Be here any minute."

I jumped up, screaming, "He can't be. He's in Texas."

"Ah. That's on hold."

We stared at each other, silently. He knew but had no proof.

The door opened. "Hello, Poppy," said Dr. Morrows. My nemesis.

I screamed and screamed. I shoved the table at Orwell and tried to run away, but they caught me, still screaming, kicking, scratching, biting. Dr. Morrows checked a hypodermic. I felt the prick as he injected the sedative. My screams quieted.

"We'll figure out what Poppy did and help you, Dana," Dr. Morrow said.

My eyes closed.

Lights. I twisted. Something covering me. A blanket? A sheet? Beep-eep-eep from a machine. I opened my eyes. Where was I? In a single bed in a narrow room with one window. Institutional. Bellevue? Beep-eep. What had happened?

"Hello," said Dr. Morrows, sitting in the only chair in the room, patiently, as though he had sat there forever and would sit there forever, till I woke up, if necessary. Beep-beep. His patience was one of many reasons I'd gone to him for therapy.

"Dr. Morrows." My mouth was dry. So dry. Was I restrained? No. I sat up. Eep-beep. "I'm thirsty. Can I have some water?"

He nodded and pushed a button on the com.

"Nurses desk."

"Please bring a bottle of water," Dr. Morrows said.

"Right away." The com clicked off.

"Why am I in the hospital?"

"We'll get to that."

Someone knocked on the door. Dr. Morrows took a bottle of water, twisted the cap off and handed it to me. I gulped, swallowing half. Better. I took another swallow.

"Thank you. I was so dry. Can you explain why I'm here? Is she?"

Dr. Morrows asked, "What's the last thing you remember?"

"Uhhhhh. I checked a lottery ticket I'd bought the day before. How long have I been here?"

"Not long. About six hours. What about the ticket?"

"I only had one number." I looked around. My ski jacket, scarf and hat were on a hanger. The scarf was green. I don't have a green scarf. Where was my white scarf? My reversible jacket was turned to the smooth side. I always wear the sherpa side out unless it's raining. I looked out the window. The sun was setting. No rain.  She wears the smooth side out. The old fear tightened my chest.

"How is my therapy going? Please tell me."

"First, tell me what you remember from our last visit."

I thought for a moment. "It was last week. March...5. You told me you were retiring in a few months, in June. I'd see another doctor to continue therapy for claustrophobia and fear of the dark to support my recovery." I twisted my hands. What was going on?

"Dana, it's December 7."

Was he joking? "Can't be. I saw you last week. March 5."

He shook his head slowly. "It's December, Dana." He looked at me, then got up and went to the door. He turned the lights off.

DARK! DARK! DARK! DARK! DARK! "Lights, please, lights on, Mommy, Uncle Eddy," I screamed. "I'll be good! I promise!" I wailed the broken sobs of a child locked in a car trunk. The lights flicked on.

Dr. Morrows handed the water bottle to me. I gulped water, began to get control of myself.

"Why did you do that? You monster. You know how I feel about the dark and small, closed places."

"Yes, I do. I had to be sure you weren't Poppy."

"Poppy? She's gone. You said so. I integrated her again. I just still have some phobias to deal with."

"Poppy fooled us all. She pretended to be you, suppressed you, pretended to have your phobias." He shook his head. "You never went for the other therapy I ordered. Poppy didn't need it because Poppy doesn't have your phobias. I had to be sure. Poppy can't fool the monitors, your pulse and blood pressure going up, your anxiety attack."

"Why?"

"We think Poppy took over back in February or March, pretending to be you." He watched me closely. I took another sip of water. My heart wasn't racing so much now.

"How...how long?"

"It's December. Eight or nine months."

My mouth went dry again. I drank the last of the water. "I don't believe you." I don't want to. Dr. Morrows showed me the date on his cell phone: December 7.

"She's back." I closed my eyes. "Can't I ever get rid of her?"

"She's the personality you developed when your mother and her boyfriend ran away and took you along."

"The police were looking for him. He'd get life in prison. No parole. They grabbed me when I had visitation with Mom." I choked. "There was a search for them and for kidnapping me from Dad, who had custody of me."

"Yes."

"They'd lock me in the trunk of the car when they didn't want anyone to know I was there. The police, usually, looking for a man, woman, and little girl. They'd beat me if I made any noise. They left me there for hours, sometimes. Usually. I'd pee myself and they'd beat me for that."

"The source of your fear of the dark and your claustrophobia," Dr. Morrows said, gently.

I nodded, tears beginning to fall. "Poppy Fairchild was the personality I developed to deal with the abuse. She—Poppy isn't afraid of the dark and she doesn't have claustrophobia."

"Right," said Dr. Morrows, in his soft, soothing voice. He believed. 

"Has Poppy been out all these months?"

"I believe so. So do some others."

I was puzzled. "What others?

"Me, of course, the police and Rick, your husband."

"Rick? Is he here?"

"Not right now. The police want to talk to you. First, there's someone here to see you."

I nodded.

Dr. Morrows went to the door, unlocked it and poked his head out. A man came in.

"Dad!" The man who rescued me from my terrible mother and her monster boyfriend. From the trunk of the car and the darkness. Poppy was out, though, and he couldn't protect me from her.

"Dana. My little girl." He hugged me. He stepped back, but still held my hands. I was crying again.

"Dad, you're here."

"I'm glad you here. Poppy kept me away, saying she needed to work on her therapy. I'd probably have recognized her."

I nodded.

"We talked to Rick," Dad said. "He'll come see you tomorrow." I glowed. My Rick.

I asked Dr. Morrows, "Why do the police want to talk to me? Did Poppy do something?"

"No. Let's get the police in," said Dr. Morrows. He opened the door again and Sgt. Orwell came in with another officer. I found out Sgt. Orwell was now Lt. Orwell. The other man was a Sgt. Rossio.

"Mrs. Winslow," said Orwell, "Dr. Morrows has explained what happened. He assures us you're yourself, now. Dana, not Poppy. Do you remember December 1 when you shopped at Jose's and bought a lottery ticket?"

"Yes," I said.

"A woman came in and kidnapped a little boy, Jaxon Green, left in a stroller by the front. You held the door for her and spoke to her on the street. She got in a car and left with the baby. We have no leads on the child. No request for ransom. Nothing. We hope you can tell us something that will help."

"Give me a minute." I thought back to that night. I'd gone into Jose's to get a few things. "I don't know anything about a kidnapping."

"You're not a suspect. You didn't see the mother leave the baby for a few minutes. You had no reason to believe the kidnapper wasn't his mother."

"OK. Let's see. I paid at the register and talked with Jose for a minute. He pointed to the paper showing the $500 scratcher I won. I bought a regular ticket, not a scratcher. As I was leaving, I saw the woman with the baby struggling with the door, so I held it for her. We walked out and I told her what a handsome boy she had."

"He was eating a cookie. I put my ticket in my jacket pocket and we spoke for a minute about Christmas, the holidays. She said Enrique—that's the name she gave for the child, was her Christmas baby. A car stopped. An...a Lyft. The driver got a car seat from the trunk and put it in the car. She put the baby in it, got in and they drove off. She wasn't going far, only a few blocks."

"A Lyft?"

"Yes, and the driver had a baby seat. I think you can request a driver with baby seat now."

"Do you remember the car? Make and model?"

"Um, White Toyota Corolla. The driver was white, an older man. Thin. She was Hispanic by her accent and had a necklace with 'Maria' on it. Mid 30s."

I gave Lt. Orwell a few more details. He thanked me and he and Rossio left.

"Now what?" I asked Dr. Morrows.

"I'd like you to stay in the hospital tonight. In a regular room. We've arranged for your father to stay with you if you like."

"I like." Dr. Morrows smiled.

"I'll see you in the morning about a discharge."

I was discharged the next morning and was going home with Dad, to the Bronx, a place Poppy avoided. I'd stay with him and continue therapy with Dr. Morrows for a month or so, and then transfer to the other psychiatrist he recommended.

I was starving so we stopped at a favorite diner in the Bronx. I ate a club sandwich and Dad had a burger and fries. The news played on the TV. A reporter broke the story that Jaxon Green had been found and taken to the hospital for a check-up, where he was reunited with his parents. A woman, Maria Uvalde, had been charged with the kidnapping and was being held without bail. Lt. Orwell, Sgt. Rossio, and Officer Taracs were credited with finding the child after information from a witness. The TV switched to a commercial for shampoo.

"Jaxon's home," I told Dad. "I'm so very glad."

"Yes. You did well, my girl. You'll go back to therapy, and Poppy will never come back."

"I believe so, Dad. This time we'll return her to where she came from, and I'll be me."