“The masked woman on the bench in Central Park who was texting about killing someone. I read her texts with my binoculars from our window. She had on a mask with a shirt and tie on it. I found that same mask in your closet. It was FBI-issued.”

“I work for the FBI. Why wouldn’t I have an FBI-issued mask?”

“But she doesn’t. How did she get the mask, Conner?”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“I saw all the text messages. I know everything.”

“I’ve had enough of your crazy accusations for one week. My whole life has been turned upside down by you. You’re getting really tiresome. I’m going home now.”

“You’re not going to get away with this,” she said.

“Get away with another delusional plot you cooked up from nothing right before you were admitted to a mental hospital?”

“It’s not cooked up from nothing.”

“Don’t you get it,” said Conner starting to lose his cool, “No one’s going to believe anything you say. You’ve got a history of making up stories and nearly getting arrested. Even Sean’s had enough and thinks you might be crazy. You tried to kill yourself and now you’re accusing your husband, a decorated federal officer, of trying to murder you based on a fantasy. Can you spell paranoid?”

“I know the truth now, Conner.”

“And, I know you’re nuts,” he said with a sneer as he walked to the door of her room. “See you tomorrow, babe. I’ll meet you at the loony bin. Don’t forget your toothbrush. You may be there a long while.”

Instead of going straight home from the hospital, Conner took a long walk to burn off steam. Everything had gone wrong and he needed time to figure things out. It was a nice night and he eventually stopped at a deli and picked up a cold six-pack of beer and a bag of chips. Walking to a small, empty courtyard park, he sat down. He opened a beer, thinking only about finding his missing burner phone. Where the hell did she put it? It’s got to still be in the apartment.