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 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 pre sentation 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.
three
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 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 or ganized, 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 it.
“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
