I realized it didn't make a difference whether Carmen heard my comment in person or read about it in tomorrow's papers.

I went outside and Carmen followed behind me. I was surprised to see a few news cameras aimed at me, in addition to all the microphones.

Photographers were there too, and I squinted as the flashes went off.

"This has all come as a shock to me," I said. "All I ask is that you please have some respect for my privacy during this very difficult time. Thank you."

As I headed back into the building, stepping around Carmen, the reporters shouted questions at my back. I made out a few of the questions "Did you know about Rebecca Daniels's past?" "How does it feel to know your girlfriend was a psychotic murderer?" then the voices merged into loud noise.

Following me to my apartment, Carmen said, "What's this about your girlfriend murdering people? What happened now?"

I went into my apartment and bolted the door and put the chain on. Then I went into the hallway closet and took the Phillips screwdriver out from the toolbox in the closet. I unscrewed the cover to the buzzer and yanked out several of the wires. Hopefully the reporters wouldn't harass me anymore, but just in case I wanted to make sure I didn't have to listen to the buzzer all night.

Going out to dinner was out of the question now, with all the reporters out there.

"How about we eat in instead?" I asked Barbara.

I didn't sense her presence the way I had earlier.

"Barb, are you here?"

I waited, but I still didn't sense anything. I figured I wouldn't push it; I'd just try again later.

I decided that ordering food in was a bad idea. For all I knew there were even more reporters outside now, and they'd rush the door when I let the delivery guy in.

There wasn't much in the house to eat: a packet of Cup-a-Soup and a jar of marshmallow fluff in the cupboard, and a package of frozen peas that I used as an ice pack in the freezer.

After I had the Cup-a-Soup, I turned on the TV to the Cartoon Network and ate fluff on a spoon as Tom chased Jerry.

"God, you're so immature," Barbara said.

"Are you here?" I said.

"You know what your problem is? Your problem is you never grew up. You can't let go."

"Barb?" I said. "Barb?"

There was no answer.

During "Popeye," I found myself nodding off. I left the dirty dishes on the coffee table and went into the bedroom and lay down.

I fell asleep and quickly began to dream. Barbara and I were in a split ranch-style house, decorated like Aunt Helen's house, but it wasn't, in someplace suburban that looked like Dix Hills, Long Island, except there were mountains. Then the scene switched to Manhattan and we were in Barbara's old apartment on Eighty-fourth Street. The apartment looked exactly like her old apartment, except the ceilings were much higher and the furniture was different Danish modern, like the furniture in Aunt Helen's house. Then Barbara became Charlotte and the dream turned horrifying. Charlotte was sitting on my lap, playing with my hair and kissing me. I tried to get her off me, but she was too heavy; then I stood up, trying to walk, but she was still attached to my thighs. Then Charlotte turned into Kenny and I tried to get away from him, but we were stuck like Siamese twins, and he was laughing in his sick, demented way.

I woke up sweating, convinced that Kenny was attached to me. After a few seconds, I realized I'd been dreaming, but I couldn't calm down.

The room was empty and very quiet. I still didn't sense Barbara anywhere.

THE NEXT MORNING there were only a few reporters camped in front of the building. As I went down the block they followed me, shouting questions at my back as if I were Princess Di.

Finally I turned around and shouted, "Leave me the hell alone!"

They followed me for another half a block, but gave up as I turned onto Amsterdam. Walking along Seventy-ninth Street, I looked behind me, thankful that the reporters weren't there.

Crossing Broadway, I stepped off the curb while the light was still yellow, and then I heard the loud, screeching brakes. Thanks to quick reflexes, I managed to jerk backward out of the way, just avoiding getting hit by an SUV. The driver a young Asian guy gave me a long, mean stare before he continued on, shaking his head.

I continued down to the subway, feeling shaken up and out of it.

Several people on the packed platform seemed to be staring at me, and I wondered if it was because they recognized me from the news last night or if they just thought there was something wrong with me.

I didn't remember that today was my first day at my new job as associate editor until I entered my office building. It was too bad that a blackmailer had pictures of me leaving the body of the man I'd killed against a trash can, and that the world had just found out that my dead girlfriend was a psychotic killer, or I might've had something to look forward to today.

When I got off the elevator, I went right to my new office and tried to get involved in my routine. On my calendar, I had scheduled two early phone interviews with analysts familiar with the operations of Prime Net Solutions, the DSL company I was doing a story on. I called the analysts who had some doubts about the company. Due to severe competition, unreliable customer service, and a mixed balance sheet, the future of Prime Net was uncertain. I began writing my article:

Odds are you've never heard of Prime Net Solutions, but that's about to change. Thanks to a flood of new subscribers and an already satisfied customer base, this resurgent DSL company is about to take charge of Manhattan's high-speed Internet industry.

Writing the positive opening paragraph improved my mood. I outlined the rest of the article and started pulling out the most positive portions of the analysts' quotes. I also came up with a title for the article: Prime Net Primed for Greatness." By later in the morning I was able to block out most of my worries, and I felt almost normal again.

"You're here," Angie said.

I swiveled away from the computer monitor and saw her standing at the entrance to my office with a baffled expression.

"Yeah, I decided to come in," I said. "You know, it being my first day at the new job and all."

"Oh," she said. "I just figured you'd be taking some time off. So how are you?"

"Okay," I said. "I mean, considering."

Angie pulled up a chair and sat across from me. In the fluorescent light I noticed her bleached mustache hairs.

"I was going to call you today anyway," she said. "That Detective Romero talked to me again. This time he came to my apartment."

I felt a surge of panic, wondering why Romero wouldn't leave Angie alone.

"So I guess you heard everything," I said.

"I couldn't believe it," she said. "So is it all true?"

"I guess so."

"Detective Romero told me she might've made a mistake. She might've really meant to kill me."

"I doubt that. Rebecca had a lot of strange friends, and she was probably mixed up in some kind of drug thing downtown."

By the look Angie was giving me, I wasn't sure she believed me.

"It was just really scary," Angie said. "I mean, to even hear something like that."

"They're just following up leads," I said. "They get all kinds of crazy leads they have to explore in cases like these. But I'm telling you, I really doubt it had anything to do with you."

"It's just all so freaky," she said. "I mean, I know it's even freakier for you, but still… So you're really okay?"

"I'm just trying to go on with my life," I said. "Hopefully, in a day or two, everybody'll forget all about this."

Angie looked at me as if she thought I was joking. She left my office and returned with a copy of the Daily News. She held the newspaper up and I saw the headline, "MANIAC," with what looked like an old mug shot of Rebecca.