ON HIS way to work Adam made an emergency appointment with Carol. Reaching her on her cell—she was on a Metro North train, en route from her home in New Rochelle—he told her that he was in the midst of a “major crisis” and had to meet with her immediately.

“My schedule’s full today,” she said.

“I have to see you,” he said desperately. “My life’s falling apart.”

She called him back a few minutes later, saying that she’d postponed her ten o’clock appointment so that she could meet with him.

It was the most difficult session Adam had had in years. As he described to Carol everything that had happened yesterday after he returned from his golf game, he broke down crying several times, especially when he described how “enraged” and “out of control” he’d felt. Naturally Carol was very detached and supportive. When patients were in the midst of a crisis it was important to let them express themselves, and it was no time for a therapist to intrude with “solutions.” Carol mainly listened, maintaining the constant highly concerned expression that all therapists mastered, as he went on, except during the times he was most upset, when she gave him generic tidbits of support, telling him that it was “natural” to act the way he did and that he didn’t have to “apologize for his feelings.” When he was through with his venting she challenged him a bit more, but still remained very supportive, telling him that he’d felt hurt and betrayed and assuring him that he’d acted the best he could under the circumstances.

As the session continued, Adam became increasingly agitated, frustrated, and annoyed. This was one of those situations where Adam was hyperaware of the therapeutic process, so much so that he felt it was impossible to make any true inroads. He didn’t want to be coddled and manipulated by his analyst. He didn’t want to buy into the idea that his behavior had been justified, that he’d done the right thing. He knew he’d acted like a total schmuck yesterday. He’d been out of control, in a reactive state, and had expressed his anger extremely poorly. Picking the fight with Tony had been bad enough, but then he’d made another extremely poor decision by revealing his affair with Sharon. There had been no reason to drag her into it, possibly damaging her marriage and compounding the hurt for Dana and even Marissa.

“This isn’t working,” Adam announced.

Carol, completely unfazed, giving her patient the room to express himself, asked, “What isn’t working?”

“This,” Adam said. “What you’re doing right now. I know what you’re doing, because I’d be doing exactly the same thing. You’re trying to treat me, and I don’t want to be treated.”

“What do you want?”

“I want solutions, I want answers, but I’m never going to get them this way.” “How can you get them?”

“See? You can’t stop analyzing me, not even for a second. Analysis won’t work on me. I can help other people, I know I’ve helped other people, but I need to be told what to do, I need to be fixed. I’m screwing up my whole life right now, and I feel like I can’t stop myself. I feel like I’m addicted to very negative behavior.”

“You know I can’t tell you what to do, Adam.”

“Can’t you just talk to me like a normal human being?”

“If you wanted to talk to a normal human being you wouldn’t’ve called me this morning.”

There was a long pause; then they both laughed, a nice icebreaker.

“Fine, you want me to help you. You don’t need my help. How’s that for help?” “I’m not a victim, right? I’m in control of my life, it’s not controlling me.” “See? You have all the answers.”

“But knowing this doesn’t help me.”

“That’s a decision you’re making. Do you really want your marriage to end?”

“No,” he said without hesitation, and at that moment he felt he’d made a breakthrough. True breakthroughs were rare in the therapeutic process, but in his experiences with his own patients he’d seen them come at the least expected times. In his case, by confronting Carol about his lack of progress he’d ironically made more progress than he had in years.

Adam desperately needed a day off to process his feelings, but he couldn’t go home. Although he’d gotten more cancellations and no-shows, he still had several patients scheduled. In his current mindset, it was difficult to take on the role of therapist and counsel other people, but he did his best to be attentive, and he managed to get through the day.

After his last patient, he did some insurance paperwork, then left his office at about six fifteen. When he left the subway station in Forest Hills he called home. He wanted to apologize to Dana for giving her the silent treatment and for leaving that note on the blackboard, but the machine answered. He wondered if she was home but was screening his calls. He was going to leave a message or say something like “If you’re there, pick up, I need to speak to you,” but he ended the call, figuring he’d see her in a few minutes anyway.

He stopped at a grocery store and did some shopping for the house. There was a long line at the checkout counter, and then the woman ahead of him disputed the price of a canister of coffee, so the cashier—who seemed new—had to do a price check. She paged the manager, but it took several minutes for him to come over and then several more minutes for him to find the actual price and remove the overcharge. Finally Adam checked out and headed home.

He couldn’t wait to see Dana, to start communicating with her again. He’d had enough of the childish behavior of the past couple of days and it was time to act like an adult and confront this situation head-on. He knew it wouldn’t be easy. He planned to apologize to her for his inappropriate behavior—while not blaming her for hers—and suggest that they go into counseling. He still felt angry and betrayed, but he felt like he was ready to reach out to Dana and make a recommitment to the marriage. If it turned out they couldn’t resolve their differences, then so be it, but he felt it was important to at least make a serious attempt.

He entered the house, noticing that the lights were on upstairs and in the kitchen but the rest of the house was dark.

“Dana!”

No answer.

He called out, “Dana!” a little louder, but there was still no response. He figured she probably heard him loud and clear and was just giving him the silent treatment to get back at him for the way he’d treated her last night and this morning. She often played childish revenge games, though in this situation he couldn’t blame her.

But then, as he was hanging up his coat in the hall closet, he thought, What if she’s with Tony? It certainly wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that they’d decided to continue their affair. People in full-blown affairs often found it extremely difficult to break up with their lovers. A patient had once told Adam that having to end an affair was one of the most painful experiences of his life, on par with the deaths of his parents.

“Dana!” he called upstairs. “Dana, are you there?”

The house was almost completely silent; the only noise was the wind rattling the dining room windows.

He tried not to get too upset. After all, nothing had actually happened. He’d simply made up a scenario in his head and was reacting to it. He had to be aware of his anger and monitor its effect. As he often reminded his patients, feelings were fleeting. No one stayed angry forever, and no one stayed happy forever, so if you became too attached to your emotions you were setting yourself up for disappointment.

Feeling in control, in what he sometimes referred to as an even-keel state, he entered the kitchen.

At first, he didn’t know what he was looking at. He just knew that it was something strange, something he’d never seen before. He registered the bright red liquid and the body—a woman’s body—and the knife in her back.

It took at least another ten seconds before it hit him that he was staring at his dead wife.

He didn’t even know how the police had gotten here. He didn’t remember calling them; he could barely remember anything since discovering Dana’s body. It was like trying to remember a dream he’d almost forgotten.

“Mr. Bloom?”

Adam focused on Detective Clements’s face. Clements was standing, and Adam was sitting on the living room couch next to a guy in a navy hospital uniform.

“I need to talk to you, just for a few minutes,” Clements said. “Is that okay?” Then he said to the guy next to Adam, “Is it okay if I talk to him now?”

“His pressure’s still high, but he should be all right,” the hospital guy said, getting up, then heading out toward the foyer.

Like on the night of the robbery, the house was filled with cops, detectives, and crime scene technicians. Now Adam remembered calling 911, screaming into the phone, frustrated that the woman on the other end didn’t seem to understand him.

“I appreciate you taking a few moments to talk to me,” Clements said. “I know how difficult this is for you right now, but we have to move fast on this thing, and what you tell me right now could be crucial to our investigation. So I’m just gonna ask you a few very brief questions, okay?”

Adam nodded. He felt like he was barely there.

Clements asked a question, and Adam actually couldn’t process what he was saying. He watched his lips moving and heard the words, but the only words he actually understood were “time” and “discover.”

“What was that?” Adam asked.

“I said, what time did you discover your wife’s body?” “Oh.” Adam was still confused. “I don’t know.”

“You have to focus on this, Dr. Bloom . . . I know how hard this is.” “You know how hard this is,” Adam said flatly.

“Excuse me?”

“You said you know how hard this is.” Adam laughed, but not in an amused way. “Sorry, but I doubt you know how hard this is, Detective.”

“You’re right,” Clements said. “I have no idea how hard this is, but you have to bear down now, focus as well as you can just for a few minutes and tell me what I need to know. Do you think you can do that for me, Dr. Bloom?”

Adam hated the way Clements was talking down to him.

“I told you about him yesterday,” Adam said. “I told you he left the notes, I told you he might’ve robbed our house. Did you even bother to look into any of this?”

“Yes, we did, Doctor.”

“You could’ve prevented this from happening,” Adam said. “You could’ve arrested him, you could’ve done something.”

“I understand your frustration, but we can’t simply go arrest somebody because we think he might’ve done something.”

“I told you about the notes, and look what he did to me, for chrissake. How do you think I got these bruises on my face?”

“I was going to ask you about your face.”

“Tony did this to me yesterday at the health club. I was angry when I saw the note, so I went over there to . . . to talk to him, and this is what he did to me.”

“You didn’t mention he hit you when you called me last night.”

“I didn’t?” Adam thought he had, but maybe he hadn’t. It was hard to think clearly about anything right now.

“Maybe if you’d mentioned that, we could’ve held him on assault or at least would’ve had a reason to question him longer than we did. But I did talk to him yesterday, went to his apartment actually. I asked him where he was last Thursday, the day you received the first note, and he claimed he was on Long Island that whole day, helping his brother-in-law paint his house. We checked this out, and I didn’t think there was any reason to believe he was lying. Also, he claimed he didn’t leave any note at your house yesterday.”

“Come on, that’s bullshit.” Adam was practically yelling. “He left the note, he left both notes, and then he came over here and killed my wife.”

“Okay, try to stay calm, Mr. Bloom. We’re one step ahead of you, okay? We’re picking Tony Ferretti up right now, and we’re gonna check him out thoroughly, okay? If he’s our guy we’re not gonna let him get away, okay?”

“He is the guy,” Adam said. “I know he is.”

“What I need to know from you,” Clements said, “is do you have any evidence that Tony was in the house today? I mean, did your wife tell you she was expecting him? Do you know if he called her at some point or came by to talk to her?”

Adam suddenly felt dazed and disoriented. “You okay, Doctor?”

“Yeah, fine,” Adam said. “What was the question?”

Clements repeated it; then Adam said, “I don’t know, I have no idea.” “We’ll be looking at the phone records, et cetera,” Clements said. “I just

thought you might’ve heard something, or overheard someth—”

“I didn’t hear anything,” Adam said, “but I know he did it. How could it be any more obvious?”

Clements didn’t seem convinced. He asked, “Where’s the note you think Tony left yesterday?”

“It’s upstairs . . . top drawer of my dresser.”

Clements called another detective over and told him to go up and get the note. “Handle it like it’s evidence,” he said.

“I’m feeling very anxioius,” Adam said. “I need more Valium.” “You’re going to be okay,” Clements said.

“I need a higher dosage,” Adam said. “I’m telling you, he didn’t give me enough before.”

The EMT guy overheard Adam and was about to come over, but Clements held up his hand, making the stop signal, and said to Adam, “You’re going to be fine, okay? Just relax, try to stay focused, okay? When was the last time you saw your wife?”

“This morning,” Adam said, “when I went to work. She was still asleep.” “And did you talk to her during the—”

“No,” Adam said, “but I was planning to.” He suddenly felt incredibly guilty for treating Dana so harshly yesterday. He was aware of why he’d treated her the way he had, but this didn’t make it seem any better. He had to take a few moments to compose himself before he said, “I was planning to try to talk to her and I . . . I made a mistake yesterday, confronting Tony, and I said some incredibly hurtful things to her and . . . Can I please have some more Valium? I’m telling you, the dosage was too low.”

“What time did you come home this evening?” Clements asked, ignoring Adam.

“I’m not sure,” Adam said.

“You called nine-one-one at seven thirty-five,” Clements said. “So did you discover the body as soon as you came home?”

Adam remembered the shock of entering the kitchen, seeing the body on the floor, not knowing what it was at first.

“Yes,” Adam said weakly. “Yes what?” Clements asked.

“I discovered the body right away. Can’t you get me some more—” “Did you drive to work today?”

“No . . . I never drive. I took the subway.”

“Did you notice anything suspicious on your way home from the subway?

Anything that just didn’t seem right?”

He thought about it, or tried to, anyway, then said, “No, nothing.”

“So let me get this straight,” Clements said. “You came home, discovered the body, then called nine-one-one.”

“Right,” Adam said, aware of his heart racing. He needed more Valium— now.

“So when did you go over and touch the body?”

Adam was confused. “Touch it?”

“You told the nine-one-one operator you checked to see if your wife was dead. That’s how you got that blood on your sleeves, isn’t it?”

Adam looked at his shirt’s sleeves, surprised to see the smears of blood—

Dana’s blood. He felt dizzy and thought he might even pass out.

“I really need more Valium,” he said. “I’m having an anxiety attack.” Clements waved over the EMT guy, who gave Adam another couple of mil-

ligrams of Valium.

Adam had barely finished swallowing the pill and still felt very dizzy when Clements said, “So, about the blood . . .”

Clements’s total lack of empathy astonished Adam. He waited a few seconds, then said, “I think it was right after I saw her. I was in shock, naturally, and I went over to her, just to, I don’t know, see if there was something I could do.”

Adam realized he hadn’t cried at all since discovering the body and that he should be crying, releasing tension.

“I know it’s upsetting,” Clements said. “But the sooner we can get through this, the sooner I can leave you alone to deal with your grief, okay?”

Deal with your grief, like grief was something you could simply deal with— cross it off your checklist and ta-da, you could move on. Did they teach heartlessness at the police academy? Adam didn’t bother responding. His head hurt, and he was still dizzy; when would that damn Valium kick in?

“There was a message on the blackboard in the kitchen,” Clements said. “It says, ‘I want you to move out.’ Who wrote that?”

“I did,” Adam said.

“So you and your wife were planning to split up?”

Again Adam felt extremely guilty for the way he’d treated Dana over the past couple of days, for handling the whole situation so poorly. If he hadn’t confronted Tony, maybe Tony wouldn’t have come over here tonight and maybe Dana would still be alive.

“I was very upset this morning, about her and Tony,” Adam said, “but I was planning to . . .” He cleared his throat, took a couple of breaths, then continued, “I was planning to try to work things out with her. I didn’t want to leave her. I wanted to stay in the marriage.”

“Did you come straight home from work tonight, Dr. Bloom?”

Was Adam imagining it or was there a change in Clements’s tone? Did he sound harsher, even vaguely accusing?

“Yes, I did,” Adam said. “Why?”

“What time did you leave your office?” “After my last patient.”

“When was that?”

“About six. No, it was later, six fifteen.”

“So you left at six fifteen and called nine-one-one at seven thirty-five, shortly after you discovered the body. Is that correct?”

“Yes, but I stopped off to go shopping at the grocery store on my way home.” “I thought you came directly home?”

Now there was nothing vague about it. “Excuse me?” Adam asked.

“I’m just trying to get all the facts, Dr. Bloom.”

“Why does it matter if I stopped to go shopping or I didn’t stop to go shopping?”

“Please just answer my questions.”

“This is absurd,” Adam said. “It’s bad enough that you guys never solved the robbery and you removed the cops who were doing surveillance or protection or whatever, but now you come in here, knowing what’s happened to me today, and you have the balls to accuse me of . . .” He couldn’t say it, so he said, “Are you out of your mind? Are you fucking insane?”

It felt great to scream, to vent, to curse. This wasn’t necessarily the most productive way to express anger, but sometimes it was necessary.

“You’re going to have to calm down, Dr. Bloom.”

“Calm down? How can I calm down when you won’t even give me enough goddamn Valium?”

“If you’d just relax—”

“You know, instead of wasting my time talking to me you should be talking to Tony, the guy who killed my wife. I’m the victim here—”

“And I’m running this investigation,” Clements said, raising his voice authoritatively. He paused, letting this sink in, obviously getting off on the power trip, then said, “I’ll decide what questions I ask and to whom I ask them, okay? Now, I’ll ask again, how long were you at the grocery store, Dr. Bloom?”

Adam answered the rest of Clements’s annoying questions. He told him that he’d been at the grocery store for about fifteen minutes and that he didn’t speak to anyone while he was shopping and that after he finished shopping he went directly home.

“So I just want to make sure I’m getting all of this. You left work at six fifteen and, taking into account the length of the subway ride and the time you were shopping, would you say it took you about an hour to get from work to your house?”

“That sounds about right.”

“So then there’s about a twenty-minute gap between the time you got home and the time you called nine-one-one.”

Adam remembered that after he’d discovered the body he’d sat on the floor in the hallway outside the kitchen, staring straight ahead, stunned. He had no idea how long he’d been there.

“It might’ve taken me longer than an hour to get home,” Adam said. “But you said you didn’t call nine-one-one right away,” Clements said. “I was in shock,” Adam said. “I couldn’t react right away.”

“You were in shock for twenty minutes?” Clements sounded incredulous.

It took a few extra seconds for Adam to register Clements’s question. Maybe the Valium was finally working.

“It might not’ve been twenty minutes,” Adam said. “It might’ve been only five . . . or ten.”

“Well, thanks for your patience,” Clements said. “I’ll be in touch a little later, and I really am sorry for your loss.”

Clements left, and Adam sat alone on the couch, watching the activity in the house. Clements was talking to another cop, and there was a technician nearby who seemed to be looking around for fingerprints or other evidence. For a while, Adam felt like an observer, completely removed, like he was watching a movie. He thought, This has nothing to do with me. This isn’t even happening.

Then, after a few minutes, he realized that although the scene was surreal, he was very much a part of it. Dana was dead, and, even worse, he was a suspect. Maybe not the prime suspect, but still a suspect. Adam couldn’t blame Clements for focusing on him, as there was certainly plenty of circumstantial evidence. His marriage had been on the verge of imploding, he’d been behaving erratically lately to say the least, and, oh, let’s not forget the blood on his shirt—that really made him look great. As far as the police were concerned, Adam already had exhibited homicidal tendencies by shooting and killing Carlos Sanchez the other night, so why not explore the idea that he’d murdered his wife? Besides, when a woman is killed, the husband always has to be ruled out as a suspect, so it was completely understandable that Clements was questioning him.

But it amazed Adam that he’d reached this low point in his life. How had it happened? Just a couple of weeks ago things had been going so well for him. Okay, he and Dana had had some unresolved marital issues, but so did practically every other couple in the world, especially people who’d been married for longer than twenty years. And, yes, Marisssa had been going through her own age-appropriate problems, but for the most part they’d been a happy, together family up until the night that Marissa woke them up and told them that someone had broken into their house. That, in retrospect, had been the big turning point, the moment when everything had begun to go to hell.

Marissa, Adam thought. He had to tell her.

He took out his cell but couldn’t make the call. How do you tell your daughter that her mother’s been killed? Violently killed. Her life would never be the same; she’d have to go through years of therapy just to begin to deal with it, and he felt awful for compounding the hurt, giving her such a hard time with all of that tough love crap. It was clear to him now how inappropriately he’d been behaving toward her lately. He’d been displacing his emotions, punishing her rather than punishing himself. Why had it bothered him so much that she’d had a bong in the house when she barely smoked? Had that really been such a monumental issue? Adam actually regretted that he’d thrown the bong out the other day. He could’ve used a few hits himself right now.

He wasn’t sure he could handle making the phone call and was going to ask a cop to make it for him, but then he forced himself to do it on his own. She deserved to hear the news from her father rather than a complete stranger.

He couldn’t reach her and didn’t want to leave a message, so he ended the call and figured he’d try again in a little while. She was probably out with Xan. He was glad she had a boyfriend now, a good solid guy. She’d need him to help her get through this.

Adam walked slowly through the house, for some reason hearing in his mind the chorus of Pink Floyd’s “Comfortably Numb.” Maybe he had chosen this song because the lyrics reminded him of his current state of mind, or perhaps it was because it reminded him of being a teenager, when he’d lived in this very house, in a much safer, more comfortable time in his life. Jesus Christ, could he stop being an analyst for one minute? Why did everything have to mean something else? Why couldn’t he just accept things for what they were?

He peered into the kitchen, looking beyond the crime scene tape, and saw the investigators at work. Dana’s body was still there, on the floor, and a photographer was busy, taking pictures. Adam barely felt anything, and as he drifted semiaimlessly back toward the front of the house, he was aware that he was still in shock. He had counseled many patients during their grieving processes and was a proponent of Kubler-Ross’s five stages of grief. Still, it hadn’t even begun to set in, truly set in, that Dana had been murdered. Now her death was simply a concept. It was something he could say and think, but he was unable to actually feel it or comprehend the consequences.

In the living room, he lifted a venetian blind and peeked outside. He expected to see reporters, but he was astonished by how many there were. It was like a presidential news conference. One reporter spotted Adam and shouted, “There he is!” and there was a sudden frenzy of reporters talking at once, some yelling for Adam to come outside. Horrified, Adam dropped the blind and moved away from the window. Unlike after the robbery, he had no interest in attention from the media. He had no desire for fame; he hoped he never had to see his name in print in any publication ever again. But he knew they wouldn’t just leave him alone, and it didn’t matter if he made a statement or not. Their stories were probably already written. The wife of Adam Bloom, the crazed vigilante, had been found dead with a knife in her back in the middle of her kitchen floor. What more did they need to know?

Adam was suddenly dizzy again. As he made his way back through the house a cop asked, “You okay?” but Adam ignored him and sat at the dining room table. The Valium wasn’t working; he needed Xanax or Klonopin. He was through thinking that he was superhuman, that he could handle crises better than the average person. Just because he was a psychologist, because he was aware of his thought processes, didn’t make him immune from normal human emotions. These last couple of weeks had humbled him, taught him that he was no better off than his most troubled patients. He was a weak, confused man, and he wasn’t going to make it through this nightmare without some serious drugs.