I take a deep breath and then push open the doors.

The District Attorney sits behind his mammoth desk, looking as if he’s posing for a portrait. For a man in his early fifties, McKenney could pass for ten years younger. The floppy hairstyle—Robert Kennedy on the campaign trail—has something to do with his youthful appearance, but the fact that he’s tall and trim doesn’t hurt either. He’s bookended by the American and the New York State flags. Sitting in his guest chair is his deputy, Larry Kassak, a shorter, more swarthy individual I’ve never particularly cared for, although we haven’t had enough encounters for me to have an informed opinion about the man.

“Good. You’re here,” McKenney says.

“I’m sorry for being a little late,” I stammer. “I was . . . delayed on the train.”

McKenney doesn’t respond to my excuse. Instead, he gets up from his desk and walks over to his closet, out of which he pulls his overcoat.

We’re leaving the building, apparently. I notice that Kassak is wearing his topcoat too.

“Are we going somewhere?”

“Yeah, grab your coat. We’ve got a car waiting to take us over to One PP.”

One PP—One Police Plaza—is the address of police headquarters.

“Can I ask what this is about?”

“We’ll brief you when we get there,” Kassak says.

7. ELLA BRODEN

7.

ELLA BRODEN

On Thursdays at nine, I see Allison. Also on Wednesdays.

She’s a psychiatrist.

Her office is located in a townhouse on Jane Street. There’s a narrow staircase leading from the street directly to the third floor. I suspect Allison owns the entire house, either because she inherited the property or because her husband is a banker or an art dealer or something. It must be worth at least $10 million, and you don’t amass that kind of fortune charging by the hour, even if it’s in $400 increments.

The bills are sent to my father—the only bit of his charity I rely upon. I assuage my sense of entitlement with the thought that I’m doing it more for him than for myself. He insisted I see someone, emphasizing that it was necessary after the trauma I’d suffered. I might still have resisted, finding nothing wrong with sleeping all day and self-medicating with junk food, but for the fact that Gabriel echoed the sentiment.

Allison’s office reveals a woman’s touch. Lots of florals and pastels, with furnishings that tend toward the Victorian. My seat is a case in point—a long sofa upholstered in a mauve-colored velvet. It’s a piece that might have been referred to in another age as a “fainting couch.” Allison’s chair is midcentury modern and black leather, which doesn’t fit at all with the rest of the décor. So much so that I wonder if its presence isn’t some type of Rorschach test.