Panic Attack E-Book

Jason Starr

• Herausgeber: No Exit Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Seitenzahl: 662

Beschreibung

Dr Adam Bloom seems to have the perfect life. He is financially secure and lives in a luxurious house with his wife, Dana, and their daughter, Marissa, a recent college graduate. Late one night, his daughter wakes him up and says 'Somebody's downstairs.' From that moment on, life in the Bloom household will never be the same. As the family recovers from the break-in and the Blooms' marriage starts to fall apart, Marissa meets a young, talented artist named Xan. Adam feels that something's not quite right with Xan, but his daughter ignores his warnings and falls deeply in love. When suspicious things start happening to the Blooms all over again, Adam realizes that his first instinct about Xan was probably dead on...

Leseprobe

PRAISE FOR JASON STARR

‘Well crafted and very scary’ –Times

‘Cool, deadpan, a rollercoaster ride to hell’ –Guardian

‘Tough, composed and about as noir as you can go. Starr is a worthy successor to Charles Willeford’ –Literary Review

‘Bang up-to-date, but reminiscent of David Goodis and Jim Thompson,Fake IDis a powerful novel of the American Dream turning into the American Nightmare that marks Starr out as a writer to follow’ –Time Out

‘Demonic, demented and truly ferocious and a flat out joy to read. In other words, a total feast. Like it? ... I plain worshipped it’ – Ken Bruen

‘Jason Starr's Savage Lane is a wickedly smart and twisted look at suburbia - a tense thriller and searing satire’ – Don Winslow, author of The Cartel

‘A hypnotic story of lust and obsession’–Daily Telegraph

‘Who but Jason Starr could render suburban vice pitch black, sneakily endearing, and wickedly funny all at once? Like James M. Cain meets Tom Perrotta, Savage Lane shows, in grand style, how twisted the hearts of All-American families can be, and how those picket white fences can be dangerously sharp’ – Megan Abbott

For Chynna and Sandy

The ego is not master in its own house

– SIGMUND FREUD

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

About the Author

Copyright

1

Adam Bloom was having a nightmare. It was the one he’d had before where he was in his office in midtown, treating a female patient, maybe Kathy Stappini or Jodi Roth – both of whom, interestingly enough, suffered from agoraphobia – when his office suddenly became a white, square-shaped room, the size of a prison cell, and Kathy or Jodi turned into a large black rat. The rat had long fangs and kept chasing him around, jumping at him, making a loud hissing noise. Then the walls started closing in. He tried to scream but couldn’t make any sound, and then a long, narrow staircase appeared. He tried to run up it but couldn’t get anywhere, like he was trying to go up a down escalator. Then he looked over his shoulder, and the rat was huge now, the size of a Rottweiler, and it was coming at him, baring its long fangs, about to bite his head off.

He felt a yanking on his upper arm. Startled, he tried to turn away, onto his other side, when he heard, ‘Mom, Dad, wake up, wake up.’

He opened his eyes, disoriented for a moment, terrified of the giant rat, then realized that he was home in bed in his house in Forest Hills Gardens with his wife, Dana, lying next to him. He had the comforted, relieved feeling he always had after a nightmare. It was a rush of reassurance that everything was going to be fine, that thank God the world wasn’t such a horrible place after all.

But then he heard his daughter whispering, ‘Somebody’s downstairs.’

Marissa had graduated from Vassar last year with a degree in art history – Adam and Dana hadn’t been exactly thrilled about that choice – and was back living at home, in the room she’d grown up in. She’d been acting out lately, exhibiting a lot of attention-seeking behavior. She had several tattoos – including one of an angel on her lower back that she liked to show off by wearing halter tops and low-rise jeans – and had recently dyed pink streaks into her short light brown hair. She spent her days listening to awful music, emailing, blogging, text messaging, watching TV, and partying with her friends. She often didn’t come home until three or four in the morning, and some nights she didn’t come home at all, ‘forgetting’ to call. She was a good kid, but Adam and Dana had been trying to encourage her to get her act together and get on with her life.

‘What is it?’ Adam asked. He was still half-asleep, a little out of it, still thinking about the dream. What was the significance of the black rat? Why was it black? Why did it always start out as a patient? A female patient?

‘I heard a noise,’ Marissa said. ‘Somebody’s in the house.’

Adam blinked hard a couple of times, to wake himself up fully, then said, ‘It was probably just the house settling, or the wind –’

‘No, I’m telling you. There’s somebody there. I heard footsteps and stuff moving.’

Now Dana was up, too, and asked, ‘What’s going on?’

Like Adam, Dana was forty-seven, but she’d aged better than he had. He was graying, balding, had some flab, especially in his midsection, but she’d been spending a lot of time in the gym, especially during the last year or so, and had a great body to show for it. They’d had some marriage trouble – they’d nearly had a trial separation when Marissa was in high school – but things had been better lately.

‘I heard somebody downstairs, Ma.’

Adam was exhausted and just wanted to go back to sleep. ‘It was nothing,’ he said.

‘I’m telling you I heard it.’

‘Maybe you should go and check,’ Dana said, concerned.

‘I’m really afraid, Daddy.’

The daddy part got to him. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d called him daddy, and he could tell she was seriously frightened. He was awake anyway and had to go pee, so he might as well go check.

He breathed deeply, then said, ‘Fine, okay,’ and sat up.

As he got out of bed, he cringed. He’d had on-and-off-again lower back pain and stiffness for the past few years, an overuse injury from running and golf. His physical therapist had given him a list of exercises to do at home, but he’d been busy lately with a couple of involved patient crises and hadn’t been doing them. He was also supposed to ice his back before he went to sleep and after he went running or worked out, and he hadn’t been doing that either.

Massaging his lower back with one hand, trying to knead out the stiffness, he went across the room, opened the door, and listened. Total silence except for some faint wind noise outside.

‘I don’t hear anything,’ he said.

‘I heard footsteps,’ Marissa stage-whispered. ‘Keep listening.’

Dana had gotten out of bed and was standing, in her nightgown, next to Marissa.

Adam listened again for around five seconds, then said, ‘There’s nobody there. Just go back to bed and try to –’

And then he heard it. The house was big – three stories, five bedrooms, three and a half baths – but even from where he was, on the second floor, at the end of the hallway, the sound of maybe a dish clanging or a vase being moved was very clear. It sounded like the person was either in the kitchen or the dining room.

Dana and Marissa had heard the noise, too.

Marissa said, ‘See, I told you,’ and Dana said, ‘Oh my God, Adam, what should we do?’

They sounded terrified.

Adam was trying to think clearly, but it was hard because he was suddenly worried and frazzled himself. Besides, he always had trouble thinking when he first woke up, and he never felt fully functional until after his third cup of coffee.

‘I’m calling nine-one-one,’ Dana said.

‘Wait,’ Adam said.

‘Why?’ Dana asked, the phone in her hand.

Adam couldn’t think of a good answer. There was someone downstairs; he’d heard the noise clearly, and there was no doubt what it was. But a part of him didn’t want to believe it. He wanted to believe he was safe, protected.

‘I don’t know,’ he said, trying to remain calm and logical. ‘I mean, it’s impossible. We have an alarm system.’

‘Come on, Dad, I know you heard it,’ Marissa said.

‘Maybe something fell,’ Adam said.

‘Nothing fell,’ Marissa said. ‘I heard footsteps, you have to call the police.’ Then from downstairs came the clear sound of a cough, or of a man clearing his throat. It sounded closer than the other noise Adam had heard. It sounded like the guy was in the living room.

‘Okay, call the cops,’ Adam whispered to Dana.

While she was making the call, Adam went to the walk-in closet, flicked on the light, reached to the top shelf and grabbed his Glock .45. Then he bent down, moved some things out of the way, and opened the shoe box where he kept the bullets.

‘What’re you doing?’ Marissa asked.

Adam was still bending down, loading the clip, and didn’t answer. He’d bought the gun four years ago after a couple of houses in the neighborhood had been robbed. He practiced shooting once in a while in the city, at the West Side Pistol Range. He enjoyed shooting, and it was a great way to relieve stress and safely express anger.

He came out of the closet with the gun in his hand, and Marissa said, ‘Are you fuckin’ crazy?’

Dana was still on the phone, finishing up the conversation with the 911 operator, whispering, ‘Yes, we think he’s in the house right now… I don’t know… please hurry… yes… please hurry.’ Then she ended the call and said, ‘They’re coming.’ She put an arm around Marissa, then saw the gun in Adam’s hand and said, ‘What the hell’re you doing with that?’

She hated the idea of having a gun in the house and had been asking Adam to get rid of it.

‘Nothing,’ Adam said.

‘Then why’re you holding it?’

He didn’t answer.

She said, ‘Just put it away, the police’ll be here any minute.’

‘Keep your voice down.’

‘Adam, the police’re coming. There’s no reason to have a –’

She cut herself off when there was another noise. There was no doubt this time – there were footsteps, the guy was heading upstairs.

‘Oh my God,’ Marissa said, covering her mouth, starting to cry.

Adam was trying to think again, focus, but his brain was overloaded and he said, ‘Hide in the closet.’

Dana said, ‘What’re you –’

‘Nothing. Just go, goddamn it.’

‘Come with us.’

‘Just hide – now.’

Dana seemed hesitant. Marissa’s crying was getting a little louder.

‘He’ll hear her,’ Adam whispered urgently.

Dana and Marissa went into the closet and hid. Adam went to the door, holding the gun up by his ear, pointed at the ceiling. For several seconds, he listened, but heard nothing. He hoped this meant the guy had decided to go back downstairs. Maybe he’d heard Marissa crying and would simply leave the house and run away.

But then there was another creaky footstep on the stairs – the son of a bitch was coming up. It hit Adam as if he were realizing it for the first time – someone was inside his house.

He’d grown up in this very house, and then his parents had given it to him when Marissa was a baby, when they moved to Florida. He’d loved growing up in Forest Hills Gardens, with all his friends so close by and the houses with the big backyards, but the neighborhood was safer now than it had been back then when he was ten years old and an older kid stole his bicycle – just came up to him with a knife one afternoon and said, ‘Give it up.’ As a teenager, he’d been mugged on Queens Boulevard twice, and when he was in his twenties – living in Manhattan while he was going for his doctorate at the New School – he was once robbed at gunpoint in the vestibule of a friend’s apartment building in the Village.

Standing with the gun drawn, listening to the intruder take another step up the stairs, he remembered how awful and helpless it had felt to be a victim, and how he didn’t want to be a victim again. His thoughts were frantic, but he was trying to be logical. He thought, What if the guy has a gun? What if he’s a total maniac? What if, any moment now, he charges up the stairs and starts shooting? What if he shoots me?

Adam imagined getting shot, lying dead in the hallway, and then the guy finding Dana and Marissa in the bedroom. The guy could be some crazed rapist. There were always stories in the news about home invasions, men breaking into houses and raping women, but he’d never thought it could actually happen to him, in his own house.

But it could be happening now.

The guy was on the staircase, getting closer. In a few seconds he could be at the top of the landing, and then it would be too late.

All of this was going through his mind at once, and he didn’t have time to think it through clearly. If he’d had more time, if he were in a calmer, less scattered state, he might’ve realized that the police would be arriving any moment. There was a private security company in Forest Hills Gardens and there was supposed to be a response time of less than five minutes. If he locked himself in the bedroom, hid with Dana and Marissa, the guy probably wouldn’t be able to get to them. He might try the locked bedroom door, but then he’d give up, and the police would arrive.

But Adam wasn’t thinking about any of this now. He was only thinking about how he wanted to protect his family, how he didn’t want to be a victim again, and how some son of a bitch had broken into his house, the house he’d grown up in, the house that his father had bought in 1956.

He heard the guy take another step on the staircase, and then another. Was Adam imagining it or was the guy approaching faster? There was only a night-light on in the hallway, a little candle-shaped orange light plugged into a socket at ankle level. Adam’s eyes had adjusted, but it was still hard to see very clearly. At any moment, though, the guy would appear. After he took another step or two Adam would see his head, or the guy might rush up and attack him.

Adam was standing by the entrance to his bedroom, and then, an instant later, he was in the hallway, running with his gun drawn, yelling, ‘Get the fuck out of here!’

It was darker near the stairway than it had been near the bedroom door. Now Adam could tell that the guy wasn’t as far up the staircase as he had thought. He was maybe halfway up, and Adam could tell that he was a big guy, but that was about it.

Then he saw the guy’s hand reaching for something. It was a sudden movement, and Adam knew that it had to be a gun. He even thought he saw a glimmer of something, shininess near the guy’s hand. If he waited any longer the guy would shoot him first. Then he’d shoot his way into the bedroom, find Dana and Marissa, and kill them, too.

The guy started to say something. Later Adam would dwell on this moment and remember that the guy had said, ‘Please don’t –’ but at that moment everything was happening so fast that he wasn’t even aware that the guy had spoken. He was only aware of the danger he and his family were in as he started firing his gun. He wasn’t sure if the first shot hit the guy, but the second one did, high up, in his neck or head. The guy was falling backward, starting to tumble, and Adam remembered his shooting instructor saying, Always go for the chest, not the head – and he emptied the rest of the clip, the other shots going into the guy’s chest or midsection. Then the guy fell out of view, into darkness, but Adam heard his body land with a loud thud at the bottom of the staircase.

There was silence for a long moment, and then there was noise from downstairs, but it had nothing to do with the guy Adam had shot.

There was someone else in the house.

There were footsteps, then deep breathing. Adam was out of bullets. If the other guy came upstairs or started shooting, he was screwed.

‘Get the hell out of here or I’ll shoot!’ Adam yelled.

That was smart, brilliant maybe. Make the guy think he still had bullets. Why wouldn’t he think so? Adam had fired off the shots so quickly the guy couldn’t have possibly counted the shots. And even if the guy had counted them, knew Adam had shot ten rounds, how would he know he didn’t have more ammo?

The strategy worked, or maybe the guy just panicked. Adam heard him running away, knocking into something – the console? – and then the front door opened and closed and the guy was gone.

‘Adam.’

He turned suddenly, feeling a sharp jolt in his chest. Then he registered Dana and Marissa standing there.

‘Are you okay?’ Dana asked.

‘Back to the bedroom!’ Adam shouted.

‘Are you okay?’ Dana asked again.

‘Just get back!’

Dana and Marissa went into the bedroom, and Dana shut the door. Adam was worried about the guy on the stairs. What if he was still alive?

He reached toward the wall at the other end of the landing and put his thumb on the light switch. He hesitated, wondering if this was a great idea. Maybe the guy was aiming his gun up the stairs, waiting for a clear shot.

Adam flicked on the light, relieved to see that the guy, wearing a black ski mask, was crumpled at the bottom of the stairs, not moving at all. He headed downstairs, going slowly, not taking his eyes off the guy’s body.

As Adam got closer, he could tell that the guy had darkish skin, looked Latino, maybe Puerto Rican. His chest and face were a bloody mess, there was a big hole and oozing blood and gray stuff where his left eye used to be, and a big chunk of his jaw was gone.

Adam stared at the body for a while, trying to process what he’d done.

He’d shot a man. He’d shot and killed a man.

Then he looked toward the guy’s right hand. There was a flashlight two stairs above the guy’s head, but Adam didn’t see any gun. There was no gun on the staircase or on the floor at the bottom, either. Maybe the guy had fallen on it and it was under his body.

Adam remained, staring in a daze at the man he’d killed until the police started banging on the front door.

2

It was almost four in the morning, about two hours since the shooting, and the Blooms’ house was still filled with cops. Dana and Marissa were in the downstairs den with Dana’s friends Sharon and Jennifer, who had come over during the commotion. Adam was at the dining room table, sitting across from Detective Clements, a weathered, gray-haired guy who reeked of cigarettes.

‘So you saw Sanchez on the stairwell?’ Clements said.

The cops had found a New York state driver’s license and other ID in the dead guy’s wallet and had learned that the victim was thirty-six-year-old Carlos Sanchez from Bayside, Queens. They’d already done a search on Sanchez and discovered that he was a career criminal with a long rap sheet and had been released six months ago from Fishkill, where he’d been serving a sentence for multiple drug-dealing convictions. Adam had already described everything that had happened prior to the shooting at least once, but Clements was still digging for details.

‘Well, I didn’t see him,’ Adam said. ‘I saw a figure. You know, a shadow.’ Adam was exhausted, so out of it that it was hard to focus. The whole night seemed surreal – the nightmare about the giant black rat, waking up, the shooting, and now sitting here with this detective. He knew it would take a while before he could process and accept what he’d done. Meanwhile, he had a splitting headache, and three Advils hadn’t made a dent.

‘Yet you could tell it was a man?’ Clements said.

‘Yes,’ Adam said. ‘I mean, I heard the noise from downstairs, him coughing or clearing his throat or something. There was no doubt it was a guy. My wife and daughter heard it, too.’

‘And then you shot him?’

‘No, it didn’t happen that quickly. I mean…’ He had to think; for a moment he actually couldn’t remember what had happened, the exact sequence of events. It was all blurry, disorganized. Then he said firmly, ‘I didn’t just shoot him. I saw him make a move first, like he was going for a gun.’

‘Did you see a gun?’

‘I thought I did, yes.’ He felt uncomfortable, like Clements was trying to catch him in a lie. ‘I mean, I could see his arm. He was coming up the stairs and I was afraid any second he’d start shooting. Look, what was I supposed to do? The guy was in my house, coming up the stairs, and my wife and daughter were in the bedroom. I didn’t have any choice.’

‘Did you give him any warning?’

‘What do you mean?’

Adam had heard the question; he just wasn’t sure how to answer it. He was also getting frustrated by the discussion in general.

‘Did you tell him you had a weapon and did you ask him to drop his?’ Clements asked.

‘No, but I told him to get the hell out of my house, or something like that.’

‘And how did he respond?’

Adam remembered that the guy had said something, started to speak, might have said, ‘Please, don’t –’ Adam hadn’t told Clements about this because he didn’t see the point. What difference did it make either way?

‘I don’t think he said anything,’ Adam said, ‘but, look, that part happened very fast. I thought he was about to start shooting, he was in my house. Why? I had a right to defend myself, didn’t I?’

‘Yeah, you did,’ Clements said.

‘Then why do I feel like you’re interrogating me?’

‘I’m not interrogating you, I’m questioning you.’

‘What’s the difference?’

Clements almost smiled, then said, ‘Look, I don’t think you have anything to worry about legally, all right, Dr Bloom? You were in a tough situation and you did what you had to do. You got B and E and, yeah, that gives you the right to protect yourself. As long as your gun license checks out I don’t think you’ll have a problem. But I just gotta say, it’s a good thing you’re not a cop.’ He turned a page in his pad, then asked, ‘What about the other intruder?’

‘What about him?’

‘Him. You said that before, too. How do you know it was a guy?’

Adam thought about it for a moment – it was still hard to think clearly – and said, ‘I guess I don’t know that. I just figured it had to be two guys.’

‘But when you fired your gun you were unaware there was a second intruder?’

‘Correct,’ Adam said.

‘So I guess that’s why you spent a whole clip, huh? You didn’t think you had to save any bullets for anybody else?’

Clements had already raised this issue of why Adam had fired ten shots, and Adam had explained that he’d done it because he wasn’t sure he’d hit the guy, that he was just trying to defend himself. But Adam didn’t like how Clements was bringing it up again, like he was trying to get to the bottom of something.

‘I just wanted to make sure I…’ Adam was going to say ‘killed him’ but modified it to ‘– got him before he got me.’

Clements, shaking his head while looking at the pad, said, ‘It’s a good thing you’re not a cop, Doc. It’s a good thing you’re not a cop.’

Adam had had enough. He asked, ‘Is it okay if we pick this up later, or in the morning? I’m exhausted and my head’s killing me and I’ve been through a lot tonight, obviously.’

‘I understand, but there’re still a few things I need to be clear about, okay?’ Adam breathed deeply, then said, ‘For instance?’

‘For instance,’ Clements said, ‘the issue of how exactly the intruders got into the house.’

They’d been through this already, too, at least a couple of times. The police had found no visible signs of a break-in, but both the back door in the kitchen and the front door had been unlocked, and the alarm system had been disarmed. Adam had told Clements that he was positive that he’d set the alarm before he went to bed, the way he did every night.

‘Didn’t we cover all of this already?’ Adam asked.

Acting like he didn’t hear this, Clements said, ‘Are you sure you locked and chained the front door before you went to sleep?’

‘Yes,’ Adam said.

‘Is it possible you went out, or your wife or daughter went out, maybe to take out the garbage or something, and forgot to –’

‘No, I was the last one to go to bed last night, and I chained the door. I always lock and chain it if I’m the last one to go to sleep, it’s part of my nightly routine. I make sure the gas is off in the kitchen, lock all the doors, set the alarm, and go to bed.’

‘So assuming all this is correct, the other intruder must’ve unlatched the chain on the front door on his way out of the house.’

‘That has to be what happened,’ Adam said. ‘I heard the front door slam.’

‘So that means the intruders likely entered the house through the back door.’

‘Yes,’ Adam said, squeezing the back of his neck, trying to relieve some of the tension.

‘And are you positive you set the alarm and no one else disarmed it after you set it?’

‘I’m positive.’

‘But the alarm wasn’t set when we arrived, is that correct?’

‘If the alarm was set the guy,’ – Adam caught himself – ‘the person would’ve tripped it on the way out.’

‘That seems to make sense,’ Clements said. ‘So who –’

‘I have no idea,’ Adam said.

Clements glared at Adam, seeming irritated that he’d been cut off, then continued, a little louder, ‘So who except you and your family know the code to the alarm?’

‘No one else knows it,’ Adam said.

‘Did you ever give anyone the code, on any occasion?’

‘No.’

‘Did you ask your wife or daughter –’

‘You asked them directly, and they said no, didn’t they?’

‘Now I’m asking you.’

‘Asking me what? If my wife and daughter lied to you?’

‘Or weren’t being entirely truthful.’

‘What’s the difference?’

Clements was smiling sarcastically, like he was enjoying the exchange, but Adam stayed deadpan.

‘They didn’t tell anyone the code,’ Adam said. ‘No one told anyone the code.’

‘Sorry to play devil’s advocate, Dr Bloom, but unless Houdini robbed your house, somebody got ahold of that code.’

‘Maybe it was stolen,’ Adam said, ‘from the alarm company. Maybe they hacked into the system or something.’

‘We’ll explore that possibility,’ Clements said, ‘but nobody stole a set of keys from the alarm company. Did you or anyone in your family loan a set of keys to anyone?’

‘I already told you, we only have three sets of keys to the house and one spare set, and the spare set is still where it always is.’

‘Maybe someone got access to the keys. A worker in the house?’

Adam thought for a moment, then said, ‘We had some painting done a few weeks ago, but those guys had nothing to do with this.’

‘Your wife gave me the names of the painters, the electrician, your maid, your gardener. Can you think of anyone else we should check out?’

‘No,’ Adam said.

‘I noticed the keys to the back door weren’t Medecos or ones that couldn’t be easily duplicated,’ Clements said, ‘What I mean is they looked like normal keys.’

‘Yeah?’ Adam asked. ‘So?’ His eyelids were heavy, and he felt like he could pass out at any moment.

‘So it’s possible somebody could’ve duplicated the keys at some point,’ Clements said.

‘It’s possible,’ Adam said, ‘but no one knows where we keep the spare keys.’

Clements turned a page, then said, ‘Your wife told me you’d been planning to go away to Florida for several days, right?’

‘That’s right,’ Adam said, ‘to visit my mother.’

‘You canceled the trip because of a storm?’

‘That’s right. We heard there was a tropical storm off the coast down there. They said it could turn into a hurricane and might hit Florida, so I thought we might as well go some other time.’

‘When did you decide not to go?’

Adam thought about it for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck again, then said, ‘Two days ago.’

‘Who knew you changed your plans?’

‘Nobody,’ Adam said. ‘I mean, I had to notify a few patients, to reschedule appointments, and I guess Dana and Marissa told a few people, but we didn’t take an ad out in the paper.’

Clements, not amused, asked, ‘Do you ever have any patients who are prone to violence?’

Adam immediately thought of Vincent, a patient he’d been seeing for about a month who’d told him about how he’d beaten up some guy during a bar fight a few weeks ago. There was also Delano, a guy in his forties, who had stabbed his brother – non-fatally – when he was a child.

‘Yes,’ Adam said, ‘I have a few.’

‘Has anyone threatened you lately?’

‘No,’ Adam said. ‘Actually I’ve rarely if ever had any situations like that. I’m a psychologist, not a psychiatrist. If I have a patient who shows signs of that kind of volatility I’ll refer him elsewhere.’

‘So I guess you’re pretty good at that, huh?’ Clements said. ‘Telling if somebody’s volatile or not?’

Adam wasn’t sure why Clements was asking this – whether there was any point to it or he was just trying to be a wiseass.

‘I think I am pretty good at it, yes,’ Adam said.

‘Then maybe you’re in the wrong profession,’ Clements said, ‘maybe you should be doing my job.’ He smirked, then asked, ‘Does your daughter have friends over?’

‘Of course,’ Adam said. ‘She lives here.’

‘Is there any drug or alcohol use in the house?’

‘Excuse me?’

Adam didn’t like where this was going.

‘Sanchez had multiple priors on drug charges. Perhaps your daughter was an acquaintance of Sanchez’s, or a client of his.’

‘There’s no way she knew that guy, okay?’

‘Maybe she has a friend, or a friend of a friend, or someone she may have invited into the house, someone who knew the place, who could’ve –’

‘My daughter had nothing to do with this.’

‘Dr Bloom, I’m only –’

‘And she has no friends who’d steal a key or rob a house. Her friends are all normal, nice kids, just like her.’

‘I noticed the bong in her room, Dr Bloom.’

Again this felt like more than ‘routine questions.’

‘What’re you trying to say?’ Adam asked.

‘I’m trying to figure out how the intruders got into your house.’

‘Yeah, that’s funny, because it sounds like you’re trying to say something else. My daughter had nothing to do with this, okay, so let’s leave her out of it.’

Clements seemed unconvinced, but he asked, ‘What about your relatives?’

‘What about them?’

‘Any animosity in the family? Anybody with a grudge?’

Adam thought about Dana and her brother, Mark, the manic-depressive. They were on bad terms and hadn’t spoken in years, but Mark lived in Milwaukee and obviously had nothing to do with any of this, so Adam didn’t see the point in even mentioning it.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Nothing like that. This had nothing to do with my family. Zero. Zilch. Nada.’

Clements closed his pad – finally – and said, ‘That should do it for now. But I want you to think about who could’ve gotten ahold of the keys and the code to the alarm. Right now this does seem to have all the makings of some kind of inside job. Not only did the person, persons, have access to the house, they also seemed to know the house very well. I mean, they knew you didn’t have a chain on the back door and they could enter that way, so it seems like at least one of the perps had been in the house before. Maybe he was a repairman or a plumber, a mover, he delivered a rug, something like that. So if you can think of any times when someone could’ve had access to the key and the alarm code, can you let me know as soon as possible?’

‘I’ll let you know right away,’ Adam said, standing up.

‘I’m gonna have to talk to your wife and daughter again now,’ Clements said.

‘Are you kidding me?’ Adam said.

‘It won’t take long, but I need to talk to them.’

‘Why can’t it wait till –’

‘Because it can’t, all right?’ His tone left no room for discussion.

Adam and the detective went out to the living room, where Dana and Marissa were sitting on the couch, across from Sharon and Jennifer. Being around Sharon, especially when Dana was in the same room, was always awkward for Adam to say the least.

About five years ago, when Adam and Dana were having serious marital problems, Sharon and her husband, Mike, were also having trouble in their marriage. Sharon called Adam one day at work and asked if she could come by his office for some advice. Adam said that would be fine and arranged to see her at seven o’clock, his last appointment of the day, when the other therapists were out of the office. Adam gave Sharon some informal marital counseling, and then he hinted that things weren’t going so well in his own marriage. He knew exactly what he was doing – exposing his own vulnerability as a way of letting Sharon know that he was interested in her – and he already knew that she was attracted to him, because she had been flirty with him for years. They commiserated with each other about their marriages for a while, and then Sharon confessed that she’d often fantasized about ‘something happening’ between her and Adam. Adam, who counseled people having affairs practically every day, knew that getting involved with Sharon would be a huge mistake and could create a rift in his own marriage that would be impossible to repair. But knowing what to do and actually doing it are two very different things. He was as human as anyone else and had been flattered by the interest from another woman and simply couldn’t resist her.

They only had sex that one time, on the therapy couch. There were no ethical issues because he wasn’t actually treating Sharon, but he didn’t want to get into a full-blown affair with her or deal with the pain and drama that would inevitably follow, so he wisely told her – and she agreed – that they had to consider this a one-time thing and go on with their lives. She wound up working things out with her husband, and Dana and Adam went into counseling and managed to improve their marriage – well, for the most part. Adam still felt there were serious underlying problems in their relationship, mainly a lack of closeness, and he considered confessing the affair to Dana. Normally he advised his patients to confess infidelity because he believed it was the only way to truly heal and re-establish closeness and trust in a marriage. But in this case, because he didn’t feel any emotional involvement with Sharon, he decided that confessing the affair would only hurt Dana and do more harm than good. So instead he worked on exploring his reasons for the affair and developed strategies for becoming a better husband. While he regretted what he’d done, he refused to blame Dana or himself. Marriage had ups and downs, and his minor lapse had hardly been atypical. He had done the best he could under the circumstances, and if he got into a similar situation in the future he would try to make a better decision.

He would have preferred to cut off contact with Sharon completely, but, of course, this was impossible. They often saw each other around the neighborhood or at parties, and Sharon and Dana were good friends, and so were Marissa and Sharon’s daughter, Hillary. Adam and Mike occasionally played golf together at Adam’s country club and got along well. Sharon and Adam were always friendly with each other but, although they avoided discussing the affair, there was a simmering attraction between them that would probably be there for the rest of their lives.

Detective Clements asked Marissa if she’d come with him into the dining room.

Marissa, looking exhausted, asked, ‘Again?’

‘It’s okay,’ Adam said, glaring at Clements. ‘It won’t take long.’

When Marissa and Clements left, Dana said to Sharon and Jennifer, ‘You two should go home now, it’s late.’

‘Are you sure?’ Sharon asked. ‘Because if you want us to stay –’

‘No, it’s okay, really. I’ll talk to you guys tomorrow.’

‘I know,’ Jennifer said, ‘we’ll bring over bagels and coffee in the morning.’

‘You don’t have to do that,’ Dana said.

‘No, we want to,’ Sharon said.

Sharon and Jennifer took turns hugging Dana and then came over and hugged Adam. Trying not to notice the very familiar scent of Sharon’s perfume and how it was starting to give him an erection, Adam said, ‘Thanks so much for coming.’

He meant it, too. It was very thoughtful of her to come over in the middle of the night to give her support. She didn’t have to do that.

‘Of course I was going to come,’ she said. ‘Why wouldn’t I?’

When Sharon and Jennifer were gone and Dana and Adam were alone in the living room, Dana asked, ‘Why does he want to talk to Marissa again?’

Adam didn’t want to tell her that Clements had mentioned the bong in Marissa’s room, knowing it would only upset her. He figured he’d tell her about it tomorrow.

‘I think it’s just some more routine-type questions,’ Adam said. ‘He knows how tired we are, so I think it’ll only take a few minutes.’

Adam could tell that Dana knew he was keeping something from her – a woman always knows; well, almost always knows – but she let it pass.

‘So how’re you doing?’ Dana asked.

‘Okay, considering,’ Adam said.

‘Maybe you should talk to somebody.’

Earlier, Detective Clements had asked Adam if he wanted to talk to a psychologist, which Adam had thought was a slightly strange question to ask a psychologist.

‘I’ll have a session with Carol,’ Adam said.

Carol Levinson was one of the therapists with whom Adam shared office space. He wasn’t in formal therapy with her, but he talked to her on an as-needed basis.

‘Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine,’ Adam said. ‘How’re you doing?’

‘I’m okay,’ she said. ‘I guess.’

There was a coldness in Dana’s tone, an undercurrent of distance, and Adam knew it had to do with the gun. She’d been opposed to having it in the house, and she’d asked him to get rid of it on several occasions. He’d explained to her that he felt it was necessary, that he felt too vulnerable and unprotected without it, and finally she’d agreed that as long as they kept it hidden she was fine with it. But now he knew she was harboring resentment and secretly blamed him for the shooting. Of course, she wouldn’t actually say something about it – not now, anyway. No, that wasn’t her style. In these situations, she always avoided confrontation and was frequently evasive and passive-aggressive. She’d let it simmer for a while first to create more drama, and then, maybe a couple of days from now, she’d bring it up.

‘I’d tell you to go to sleep now,’ Adam said, ‘but I think Clements is going to want to talk to you again, too.’

‘I just want all these cops out of the house.’

‘Me, too. But it can’t be much longer now.’

‘Is the body still there?’

‘I don’t know, I didn’t check.’

‘Are the reporters still outside?’

‘Probably.’

‘I don’t want to be in the newspapers,’ she said. ‘I don’t want my name, your name, and I definitely don’t want Marissa’s name in there.’

‘I don’t think there’s any avoiding it.’

‘My God, do you think it’ll be front-page news?’

Adam thought it could make the front page of all the major papers – a shooting in an affluent New York City neighborhood had to be a major news story – but he wanted to placate her and said, ‘I doubt it.’

‘It’ll definitely be on the TV news,’ she said, sounding not at all placated. ‘I saw all the cameras out there. New York One, for sure, and probably all the local news shows.’

‘You never know,’ Adam said. ‘By tomorrow there’ll probably be other big news stories, and this one’ll get buried.’

He could tell Dana still wasn’t buying any of this. Well, he’d given it a try, anyway.

‘What about the other guy?’ she asked. ‘Did the detective say they think they were gonna find him?’

‘I’m sure they’ll find him soon, probably before morning,’ Adam said. He could tell how upset she was, so he kissed her and hugged her tightly and said, ‘I’m so sorry about all of this. I really am.’ He held her for a while longer, and he knew that she was thinking about saying something about the gun again, that it took all her self-control to not lay into him about it.

Instead they let go and she said, ‘I just want this all to go away. I want to go to sleep and wake up and find out none of this ever happened.’

Several minutes later, Marissa returned from talking to the detective, and then Dana went into the dining room to answer a few more questions. Marissa looked distraught, which made Adam feel awful. She’d called him daddy earlier, and he realized how, despite all her acting out lately, she was still his little girl. He hugged her tightly and kissed her on top of her head and said, ‘Don’t worry, kiddo. Things’ll be back to normal soon, you’ll see.’

There were still cops and other police personnel in the kitchen, in the living room, and especially near the staircase, dusting for fingerprints and apparently looking for other forensic evidence. He looked out a window and saw that news trucks were still there, and reporters were milling around on the lawn; and some neighbors were there, too. He knew the reporters were probably waiting to talk to someone from the family, to get a few good sound bites, so he figured he might as well get it over with.

He went outside and it was very surreal – standing in front of his house at four in the morning with all the lights in his face and the reporters shouting questions. He recognized a couple of the reporters – What’s Her Name Olsen from Fox News and the young black guy from Channel 11. Somebody was holding a boom with a mike over his head, and people were sticking mikes from ABC, WINS, NY1, and other stations in front of his face. He wasn’t used to this kind of attention; he normally tried to avoid being in the spotlight. For years he’d suffered from glossophobia, a fear of public speaking, and he usually tried to stay in the background, to be an observer. At psychology conferences, he never made a presentation unless he absolutely had to, and then he had to use a number of cognitive-behavioral strategies to overcome his anxiety.

‘Why did you shoot him?’ the guy from Channel 11 asked.

‘I didn’t have any choice,’ Adam said, already sweaty. ‘He was coming up the stairs in the middle of the night and when I shouted for him to get out he didn’t leave. I think anyone in my position would’ve done the same thing.’

‘Did you know he wasn’t armed?’ What’s Her Name Olsen asked.

‘No, I did not,’ Adam said.

‘Would you do it all over again?’ a guy in the back shouted.

‘Yes,’ Adam said. ‘If I was in the same situation, if someone broke into my house and I thought my family was in danger, I think I would. Absolutely.’

There were a lot more questions, and they all had a similar vaguely accusing tone. Adam was surprised because he’d thought that he’d be treated more sympathetically by the press. Instead he felt like he had when Clements was questioning him, like the reporters were trying to put him on the spot, trying to draw out some hidden truth that didn’t exist.

But he remained out there for a half-hour or longer, fielding every question the reporters asked him calmly and politely. He used the techniques he sometimes suggested to his patients – focusing on his breathing, speaking from his chest rather than his throat – and gradually he felt more relaxed, almost normal. When the reporters were out of questions, he thanked them for their time and went back into the house.

3

When Marissa heard the gunshots, she was convinced her father was dead. God, it had been so stupid to go out there with the gun and start shooting, what the hell had he been thinking? But that was just the way her dad was – when he made his mind up to do something he got totally possessed.

Hiding in the closet with her mother, Marissa had started to scream, but her mom put a hand over her mouth, shutting her up, and said, ‘Shh.’

She could tell how angry her mother was about the gun, too. It had all happened so fast, there was nothing either of them could do to stop him.

The gunfire ended very quickly – it seemed to last for only a few seconds – and the house was silent.

Her mom said, ‘Wait here,’ and went to see what was going on. Marissa, afraid her mother would get shot, too, went to try to stop her, but then they saw her dad standing there at the top of the landing, holding the gun. He looked so terrified and panicked, and then he lost it and shouted for her and her mom to get back to the bedroom.

A few minutes later, he joined them.

‘Did you kill him?’ her mom asked.

‘Yes,’ her dad said.

‘Is he dead?’

Her dad swallowed, clearing his throat, then said, ‘Yes, he’s dead.’

When the police arrived, her dad went down to talk to them and explain what had happened. Then they heard more sirens, and more cops arrived. Marissa and her mom stayed upstairs for a while longer, talking to some cop who grossed her out the way he kept smiling at her and checking out her boobs; then they took the back staircase downstairs. On her way past the main staircase, Marissa took a peek over her shoulder, looking down toward the bottom of the stairwell, and saw the blood and one of the guy’s legs – his jeans and a black high-top sneaker. God, this was so fucked up.

Downstairs, a cop took Marissa and her mom into the living room and asked them questions. Her mom was much more together than she was, or at least she seemed more together. She was able to describe everything that had happened, but when Marissa spoke it was hard to keep her thoughts organized, and she thought she sounded scattered.

After what seemed like forever her dad came into the living room and said, ‘How’re you guys doing? You two okay?’

She could tell he was trying to put up a front. He was trying to take charge, be Mr Strong, Mr In Control, but he had never been as in touch with his emotions as he thought he was. Just because he was a shrink didn’t mean that he wasn’t as screwed up as the rest of the world. She could tell that inside he was terrified, a total mess. She felt sorry for him, but she also knew that he’d gotten himself into this situation. No one had made him get that gun. No one had made him pull the trigger.

‘A detective just got here,’ her dad said. ‘He’s gonna want to ask us some questions.’ He sounded removed, deadpan.

‘Are you okay?’ her mom asked her dad. She was obviously furious but trying to restrain herself.

‘I’ll be fine, don’t worry about me,’ her dad said. Then, without emotion, he added, ‘So they didn’t find a gun.’

Now her mom was raging, seething. Her dad seemed oblivious, but how could he be? It was so obvious.

‘Are they sure?’ she asked.

‘Yeah,’ her dad said, ‘but it’s not my fault. I saw him reach for something. What was I supposed to do?’

She could tell he wanted reassurance, but there was no way he was going to get it from her mom.

‘I have to sit down,’ her mom said.

A few minutes later, when her dad left the room to talk with the detective who’d just arrived, her mom said to her, ‘What the fucking hell was he thinking?’

It wasn’t like her mom to curse. It was kind of scary actually.

‘I know, right?’ Marissa said. ‘When he got the gun I couldn’t believe it. I was, like, what the hell’re you doing?’

‘I’m so angry right now I just want to… I just want to strangle him.’

Her mom’s face was red. Marissa couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her mom so angry. Maybe she never had.

Although Marissa was pretty angry at her dad herself, she felt like she had to take on the role of calming her mom down and said, ‘I guess he was just doing what he thought he had to do.’

‘He thought he had to go shoot someone?’ her mom said. ‘Come on, give me a break, okay? I was on the phone with nine-one-one, how long did it take the police to get here, five minutes? We could’ve locked ourselves in the bedroom, hidden in the closet. He didn’t have to take the gun out, and he sure as hell didn’t have to shoot somebody.’

‘Maybe it was like he said, he thought he was defending himself.’

‘I don’t care what he thought,’ her mom said. ‘How many times did I tell him to get rid of that stupid gun? Just a few weeks ago I told him I didn’t feel comfortable with it in the house, and he hit me with his usual’ – she tried to imitate Adam, making her voice deeper – ‘It’s just for protection. I’ll never actually use it.’ Then in her normal voice she said, ‘I knew something like this was going to happen, it was just a matter of time.’

Detective Clements came into the living room to talk with Marissa and Dana. They pretty much told him what they’d told the first cop, Dana doing most of the talking. Then Clements and Marissa’s dad went back into the dining room for another round of questioning. Sharon Wasserman and Jennifer Berg had come over. Marissa was best friends with Sharon’s daughter, Hillary, who had graduated from Northwestern last year and was now living in the city. Jennifer’s son, Josh, was going to GW Law School and in seventh grade had been Marissa’s first boyfriend.

After what seemed like at least an hour, Clements and Marissa’s dad returned, and Clements said he wanted to talk to Marissa, alone this time. Marissa was exhausted and just wanted to get into bed and crash, and she didn’t see why she had to answer the same questions all over again.

She went back into the dining room with Clements and sat across from him at the table.

‘I know it’s late,’ Clements said, ‘but there are a few more things I need to run by you.’

‘Okay,’ Marissa said, crossing her arms tightly in front of her chest.

‘Your friends,’ he said, ‘any of them have a criminal background?’

‘No.’

‘I’m not necessarily talking about jail time. I’m talking about anyone who might’ve stolen something in the past, or talked about wanting to steal something, or –’

‘If you think one of my friends broke into our house with that guy, you’re crazy.’

‘What about drug users? Any of your friends do drugs?’

Of course her friends did drugs. Well, some of her friends. She was twenty-two years old, for God’s sake – but what was she supposed to do, rat out her friends to some cop?

‘No,’ she said.

He seemed incredulous. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘but you’re gonna have to answer these questions honestly.’

Thinking, Yeah, right, I’m not under oath, she asked, ‘What do my friends have to do with our house getting robbed?’

‘Where do you get your pot, Marissa?’

Now, not only was she upset, but she was starting to get seriously scared. She had a bong in her room and a dime bag of pot in the back of her underwear drawer. She didn’t know if Clements had been up to her room yet, but he probably had. Still, she wasn’t dumb enough to admit drug use to a police detective.

‘What’re you talking about?’ she asked.

‘I was in your room,’ he said.

Her heart was beating so fast and so hard, she felt like it was making her rock back and forth.

‘Look, I’m telling you,’ she said, ‘none of my friends had anything to do with this, that’s crazy.’

‘I’ll ask you one last time. Where do you get your drugs?’

She wanted to cry, but she wouldn’t let herself. ‘I don’t do drugs,’ she said.

‘I saw the bong in your –’

‘A friend left it here, okay? I’m just watching it for her.’

‘Watching it, huh?’ He smirked.

She was a shitty liar and knew she couldn’t keep this going, so she said, ‘It’s mine, okay? What’re you gonna do, arrest me for having a bong?’

‘Possession of marijuana is illegal.’

‘It’s not mine,’ she said desperately.

‘This is the last time I’m going to ask you,’ he said. ‘Where do you get your pot?’

‘My friend Darren.’

‘How do I get in touch with him?’

This guy was such an asshole.

‘Why do you have to –’

‘What’s his phone number?’ he asked.

Darren was a guy she’d gone to Vassar with – an on-again, off-again boyfriend – who was now back living with his parents on the Upper West Side. If he got busted, he was going to fucking kill her.

She gave Clements Darren’s number and said, ‘But please don’t call him. I’m telling you, he has nothing to do with this.’

Clements ignored her and asked, ‘Have any of your friends committed any crimes or talked about committing crimes or served any time for a crime?’

Immediately she thought of Darren, who’d once spent a night in jail in Poughkeepsie when he’d gotten pulled over and the cops had found a joint in his car, but how much trouble was she going to get the poor guy into?

‘No,’ Marissa said. ‘No one.’

‘I know we’ve been through this already, but did you ever meet Carlos Sanchez?’

‘Never.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because I just know, that’s why.’

He put a small plastic bag on the table with a driver’s license inside it. ‘Look familiar?’ he asked.

She glanced at the picture – scruffy guy, kind of ugly, with cold, detached eyes. She’d never seen him before in her life.

‘No, never,’ she said.

Clements didn’t seem satisfied. He asked, ‘Ever lend anyone a key to the house or –’

‘No, I’ve never lent anyone a key, ever.’

‘Are you telling me the truth?’

‘What do you think, I gave somebody a key and said come rob my house?’

‘Is that what happened?’

‘No, of course not.’

She couldn’t believe this.

Then Clements stood and said, ‘Okay, you’re gonna have to come with me now.’

‘Come with you where?’

‘Out to the staircase for a second. I want you to take a look at Sanchez.’

Suddenly she felt sick. ‘You mean look at his body?’

‘The driver’s license photo was several years old,’ Clements said, ‘he’d gained a lot of weight. I want you to see if you recognize him.’

‘Do I have to?’

‘Yes, you have to.’

Although she’d never seen a dead body before – well, except at a few funerals she’d been to – she just wanted to get to sleep and didn’t really care one way or the other.

She went with Clements out to the foyer. The body was still at the bottom of the staircase, splayed the way it had been before, except now Marissa could see all of it. There were technicians working near the body, maybe collecting DNA evidence or looking for fingerprints or whatever, and there was blood – it looked purple – on the bottom stairs and on the floor in front of the staircase. There was much more blood than Marissa had expected to see, which made her queasy enough, but then as she got closer, she looked at the dead guy’s face. His eyes were half-open, and there was blood leaking out of his nose. Something looked weird about his mouth, and then she realized that most of his jaw was missing.

‘Oh my God,’ she said.

Misunderstanding her response, Clements said, ‘You recognize him?’

Starting to back away, she said, ‘No, I have no idea who he is. Can I go now? Can I just go?’

When she returned to the living room, Clements wanted to talk to her mom, so she and her dad were left alone.

First he hugged her and assured her things would return to normal soon – yeah, right – then he asked, ‘So how’d it go in there?’

She didn’t answer right away, then said, ‘He made me look at the body.’

‘What?’ She could tell he was seriously upset. ‘Why the hell did he do that?’ She didn’t feel like talking to him about it. Things had been tense and awkward between them, well, for years, but since she’d graduated from college their relationship had become even more strained, what with him constantly on her case about getting a job and moving out on her own. Her plan had been to live at home temporarily, until she could support herself, so she’d gotten a part-time job at the Metropolitan Museum of Art through a contact from an art history professor. But she didn’t like her boss, and the job had had practically nothing to do with art – her main duty had been renting out tour headphones – and after about a month she couldn’t take it anymore and quit. She’d been sending out résumés and going on interviews, but her father wouldn’t let up about the ‘big opportunity’ she’d blown, and it was hard to even be in the same room with him sometimes.

‘He wanted to see if I recognized him,’ she said. ‘Whatever.’ She was exhausted and really didn’t feel like talking anymore.