“Can I have a private word with you, doctor?” said Conner. Dr. Hufnagel nodded and the two men went out into the hallway. “A hospital social worker contacted me and said because this was a suicide attempt Regency Memorial won’t release Zoe to go home? Is that true?”

“That’s correct, it’s our standard protocol. When someone is a potential risk to themselves, our policy is to release them into a psychiatric care facility for a week or so for observation. They will evaluate and make the recommendation of when and if it’s safe for the patient to return home. It’s for her own protection.”

“Is that really necessary?” said Conner.

“Second suicide attempts are extremely common,” said the doctor. “People who try it once often do it again. We don’t want that to happen, do we?”

In front of his computer in his bedroom, Greg Harmen let out a yelp. “Yessss! Nailed it. Sweet.”

“Why do you always have to scream?” said a more annoyed than usual Gabriela sitting on the living-room sofa thumbing through a copy of Vogue. Gritting her teeth, she took a deep exasperated breath.

“Are you kidding? I just outbid MuddyMan45 for 5,000 soccer jerseys coming in from Beijing,” said a grinning Greg now standing in the living-room doorway. “I’m going to make a killing on those. Wait and see, Gabi. Wait and see.”

“Then we can have more boxes stacked up in the apartment?” said Gabriela looking around at all the bags and packages. “Do you know what a hoarder is, Greg? This is exactly what a hoarder does. There’s useless junk everywhere. I can’t breathe in here. The boxes stink. When are you getting rid of all this crap? I demand to know.”

“I’ve got to play the game, Gabi. I need to hold onto the merchandise for a while and then strike when the market is just right,” he said.

Bored with the conversation, she flipped the pages of her magazine, stopping at an ad for a new perfume. Pulling back the scent strip flap she leaned over and sniffed, making a mental note to buy it for herself the next time she was in Bloomingdale’s. Checking the time on her phone, she stood and began to pace. Why hasn’t he texted me? It’s been too many days. Something is wrong. She reached for the burner phone in her bag and checked for messages. There were none.

“Gabi,” shouted her husband from the bedroom. “Why don’t you make some of your extra special beef empanadas for dinner tonight?”

Why don’t you go kill yourself? “Great idea,” she said, feigning enthusiasm. “I’ll go to the store and buy what we need now.”