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How do you know what you did?”
    â€œI didn’t kill Dr. Michael,” he repeated, the denial a little less definite, the words a little quieter.
    â€œWhat if you had one of your episodes? Maybe that’s why you don’t remember,” she said, eyes narrowed.
    The blood rushed to his head, pounding again. “Don’t.”
    â€œAnd sometimes you can’t control your temper, George. Don’t forget that.”
    â€œHow could I when you’re constantly reminding me?” He jumped to his feet and pushed past her. “I’m going up for a shower.”
    â€œGeorge,” she said, her voice bordering on shrill, “we are not finished.”
    â€œOh yes, we are.” He took the steps two at a time. In the bathroom, he slammed and locked the door behind him.
    â€œDamn you!” He heard the shout from the stairs as he turned the shower on full blast, drowning out the sound, drowning out everything. The water hit his face and pelted his skin, the heat loosening some of the strain in his neck and shoulders. He stood like that for several minutes, allowing the water to wash over him. Just for a moment, he felt clean and new. Then it was gone. The meeting with Larry and the fight with Mary Helen, it all made him so tired. All he wanted to do was forget.
    Later, clean and changed, he snuck back downstairs and shut himself in the library, a nightcap in his hand. Almost welcoming the dream now, he closed his eyes, letting the past rush forward and fill his mind, erasing the misery of the present.
    Down by the river, he waited for Sarah and dozed under the hot sun. The sound of her car on the gravel drive startled him. He watched as she parked in front of the guest cottage. He held his breath, resisting the urge to turn and drink in every step she took.
    â€œGeorge? Is that you down there?”
    â€œHere.” She came to him, long legs flashing, sinewy arms swinging at her sides. The halter top and shorts she wore clung to her body and her tan skin glowed in the afternoon light.
    George sucked in his breath. “God, you’re beautiful,” he whispered. “So beautiful.”

 
    Chapter Ten
    â€œI S THIS I T?” Cancini asked. He tapped the black book lying on the desk.
    Smitty nodded. “Mrs. Watson said it lists all of Michael’s appointments in and out of the office. I’ve got Wilder checking out her computer, but she says she hardly used it. She swears this is all we should need.”
    Cancini pulled his head to the right, his ear close to his shoulder. He repeated the stretch to the left.
    â€œYou okay?”
    â€œHeadache.” He opened the appointment book. “How far back does it go?”
    â€œFive months. To January. I think the ones from previous years are in the files.”
    He turned the pages until he came to the day of the murder. The appointments were written neatly in the book, first initial followed by a last name, each marked in one-­hour blocks of time. Two periods were left blank, the first hour of the morning and lunch. “Do we have the full names of the patients?” Smitty handed him a folded piece of paper. Cancini copied the list in his notebook. Then flipping back, he added the names of the patients who had come in the day before, too. “Mrs. Watson said he went out to pick up a sandwich for lunch.”
    â€œYep. There’s a deli on the corner he went to every day. Brought it back to the office and ate at his desk,” Smitty said. “Real creature of habit, this guy.”
    â€œSo, no change in routine this week?”
    â€œNope. Mrs. Watson said he used lunch to catch up on his notes.” Cancini glanced at his young partner. “I know what you’re going to say, but she wouldn’t give me those. The warrant was pretty narrow. Notes and files weren’t covered. Sorry.”
    Cancini wasn’t surprised. “Doesn’t matter. If we need them, we’ll take