For a moment, an image plays on the wall of the hallway like it’s been thrown there by a projector. Malcolm, eyes wild, plunging a knife in slow-motion into the side of Neal’s head. It’s filmed gratuitous slasher style, closeups and angles, and Neal squeezes his eyes shut from the disorientation of the lights.

Rebecca puts a cool hand against his cheek, somehow managing to walk backwards in front of Neal and Malcolm’s uneven sway without looking at where she’s going. “You’re burning up, Neal. Does the truth disagree with you this badly?”

She looks over at Martin, her expression almost apologetic. “I promise, he’s charming enough to win your son away from you most of the time.”