A quick glance over his shoulder and he walks away. Puzzled, I follow him. “At first we thought we were dealing with a murder-suicide, but—”

Tomasetti stops in the center of the living room, near where the bodies were found, and looks down at the bloody footprint. A current of worry goes through me when he sidesteps the dried blood and staggers left. I see his shoulders tighten. A sound that’s part gasp, part sigh fills the silence.

Concerned, I take a step toward him. “John?”

Leaning forward, he puts his hands on his knees and sucks in huge mouthfuls of air, like a marathoner who has just finished a long-distance race.

Case forgotten, I cross to him. “John? What’s going on? Are you all right?”

“Get the fuck away,” he grinds out.

“What’s wrong?”

No answer. He’s trembling uncontrollably now. Every breath is a rasp.

“Are you sick?”

Keeping his back to me, he raises a hand as if to fend me off. “Give me . . .” He chokes out the words. “. . . goddamn minute.”

Concern burgeons into alarm inside me. A dozen scenarios rush my brain. Is he sick? Having a heart attack? “John, talk to me,” I try. “What’s wrong? Are you in pain?”

His breaths rush between clenched teeth. I stand a few feet away, wondering what to do, how to help, growing increasingly worried. I can see the sheen of sweat on the side of his face. He’s bent at the waist, his hands clenched into fists on his knees.

“Do you need an ambulance?” I ask.

“Give me . . . fucking minute,” he says in a hoarse voice.

The urge to pull out my cell and dial 911 is strong, but I resist. If he needed an ambulance, he’d tell me. This is . . . something else.

I stand there, feeling helpless, my hand on my phone. I’m frightened and embarrassed for him. And I’m worried about his well-being. Slowly, his breathing regulates. The shaking subsides. A sigh escapes him as he straightens. Without a word, without looking at me, he turns away and walks into the kitchen.

Gathering my composure, I follow. He’s at the sink, splashing water on his face. “What the hell was that?” I ask.

He yanks a towel out of a drawer and pats his face dry, looking at me over the tops of his fingers. “Had you worried, didn’t I?”

“That’s not funny,” I snap. “You were in serious distress a moment ago. You need to tell me what’s going on.”

He looks away, takes a moment to toss the towel on the counter. “I didn’t mean for you to see that.”

“You scared me.”