“I want to go home,” she had said nervously, her voice at a higher pitch than usual, “but I’m so scared. I don’t know if I’m ready to go back in there. It was horrible.”

“I’ll be with you. I’ll go over to the apartment today and make sure everything looks okay,” Conner had said. “I promise, when you walk in tomorrow, everything will look normal.”

“But…” said Zoe as Conner got up to leave.

“Trust me. We’ll order in a nice dinner when I get back here tonight and watch a happy movie. I won’t be gone long.”

“Promise?” she said, gnawing on the cuticle of her thumb. He smiled, nodded and kissed her on the top of her head and then headed out the door.

Twenty minutes later, standing outside the front door of their Central Park West apartment, he pulled off bits of ripped, yellow crime-scene tape still stuck to the door frame and rolled them into a large sticky ball. Entering the apartment for the first time since the incident, he found the condition more horrific than he had imagined.

From the second he set foot inside, he had to sidestep around overturned tables and chairs. A blue ceramic hall lamp lay shattered on the floor. Walking through the elegant foyer and down the hall, he crossed through the archway into the living room. The scene in there took his breath away. Blood was splashed across the big picture window, the surrounding walls, floor, couches and rugs, making the room look like a crimson Jackson Pollack painting.

After a few deep breaths, Conner got to work. Grabbing some rags and a variety of cleaning supplies, he filled a plastic bucket with hot water and soap. He scrubbed the walls, windows, floors, and baseboards until no blood could be detected. Placing all the furniture back in their original positions, he attempted to get the bloodstains out of the gray couch cushions and decorative throw pillows. Unable to get all the blood out of the sofa, he flipped the cushions over so his wife wouldn’t see the spots. Wiping down all the tables, he picked up pieces of broken lamps, glass and knick-knacks and swept all that remained into a dustpan. After three hours of cleaning, the place looked much like it had before the attack, minus a few lamps and odds and ends. The one thing he couldn’t fix was the oriental rug. The stain was too large and the fibers too saturated. Rolling it up, he dragged it onto the elevator and took it down to the dumpster in the basement.

MONDAY—JUNE 8, 2020

At 11:30am, carrying two overnight bags, Conner escorted his wife into their building for the first time since she had been attacked.

“How are you feeling, Ms. Brandt?” said Don the doorman when they entered the lobby. “I feel terrible about letting that maniac up into your apartment.”