“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,› “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 pro – cesses 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.