“Then what?”

“We went home. Had lunch. Jay went out to his office to work while I cleaned the house, got ready for the party.”

Detective Myers leans back in her chair, trains her eyes on me. “Your husband has an office in town, right?”

“Yes. He and another therapist share space in the Tackler Building.”

“Why does he need a home office in the garage?”

“A lot of people have a home office.”

“Does he treat patients there?”

“Of course not. He just . . .” I take a deep breath. I’m rarely in Jay’s office. It’s his intellectual equivalent of a man cave. “He researches. He writes. But he definitely doesn’t see any patients out there.”

“What’s he writing?”

“A book about psychology. Scholarly stuff. He really doesn’t talk too much about his work.”

“Does he keep anything out there in the filing cabinet or his desk that someone might want?”

“I have no idea. I doubt it.” But I remember the office had been in disarray. One of the filing cabinet drawers was open. Jay wouldn’t have left it that way. “Do you think it was a robbery?”

“We don’t know,” Detective Myers says. She flips through papers in her folder. “You made a list of all the people at the party last night?”

“Yes. Our friends. Three couples.”

“What time did they leave?”

I take a deep breath. I have no idea. “I’m not sure. I went up to bed, and Jay was still downstairs.”

“You went to bed with your guests still there?”

I brush my hand through my damp hair. “No. I mean, everyone was getting ready to leave. Jay was walking them out.”

“If you had to guess the time?”

“I don’t know. Eleven-thirty maybe?”

The detective’s eyes sweep over papers in her folder. “Any of your husband’s patients giving him any cause for concern?”

“No. I don’t think so. He doesn’t discuss them with me except in vague terms on occasion.”

“He wasn’t worried about anyone, anything lately?”

I glance over her shoulder back out to the harbor and follow an expensive cabin cruiser as it motors slowly out to sea. “Not that he told me, but he was a little quiet this week. Something was on his mind, I think.”

“Uh huh. But nothing you can pinpoint?”

“No.” My gaze falls to my lap, where I’ve twisted a clump of tissues into a damp, fibrous mess. I want to help, but I really have no idea what was bothering Jay. I take a shuddering, teary breath. I should’ve pressed him. Why didn’t I insist he tell me? I rub my hand over my eyes. It’s my fault for being so needy, for being so focused on my own problems, never thinking that other people have troubles too. And now Jay’s dead.

“Mrs. Bradley, are you sure you don’t know what was on his mind?”

I try to weed through the last few days, remember our conversations, but nothing emerges that explains Jay’s preoccupied mood. I shake my head. “I don’t know what was bothering him, Detective,” I say, feeling like a total failure.