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that which he had so freely discarded. The guilt would never leave him. In that respect, he would always be the boy who grew up in that house across the street.
    The light in the kitchen went off and he could no longer see his mother walking about. He knew she was heading upstairs with a cup of tea for his father; that she would quietly place it on the desk in his study without distracting the rabbi from whatever religious text he was pondering. This was the ritual Martin remembered, every evening like clockwork. In that, he found some repose.
    He glanced at his watch. It was getting late. He had waited for Elizabeth to fall asleep before leaving home and had instructed the nanny to beep him if she should awaken. He wanted to be next to her as she slept, to make sure she was safe and protected. He wanted her to know he would always be there. But tonight, he just had this thing he needed to do.
    He contemplated once more whether to take those steps to cross the street. What would he even say to them? How would they receive him? He looked at his watch again, wondering why the hell time always moved so quickly, and with a final gaze at the house, he turned on his heel and went back to his car.

chapter 4
    September 4, 1996
    Great Neck, New York
    T he Great Neck peninsula is located on the New York City border, adjacent to Queens County, in the northwest corner of Long Island. Several small towns and villages inhabit its borders, populated mostly by upper-middle-class Jews and Asians amid a smattering of other religious, ethnic and socioeconomic groups. The Asian presence is relatively recent, while the most apparent demographic change of the past decades has been a sizeable influx of Iranian Jews, or “Persians” as they prefer to be called.
    Martin’s office was on the ground floor of a four-story condominium on Middle Neck Road, in what was known as “The Old Village,” just north of one of Long Island’s busiest commercial districts. Middle Neck was the “Main Street” of the peninsula, lined mostly with small prewar buildings, broad sidewalks, and a plethora of highbrow shops and restaurants. The street was usually crowded enough to render the comings and goings of the therapist’s office virtually unnoticed, something both Martin and his patients appreciated.

    Martin walked into the waiting room and extended his hand. “Mr. Benoît, I’m Martin Rosen.”
    Benoît rose, smiled, and shook the psychologist’s hand. “Nice to meet you, doctor,” he said.
    Martin noted the body language, the unstated confidence. Benoît stood equal to his height, at least twenty pounds heavier, but carried himself in a manner that projected strength rather than heaviness. He had a full head of shiny gray hair, his eyes were brown and intense, his cheekbones high, and his chin was so tight that smiling, somehow, seemed to strain him.
    Martin led him into the office and gestured to a comfortable black leather couch.
    “Ah, the proverbial couch,” Benoît remarked. “Shall I lie down?”
    “No need, sitting is fine,” Martin responded.
    Martin didn’t practice classical psychoanalysis, a technique in which patients lie down and freely associate while the therapist sits behind and is minimally interactive. Martin’s sessions were face-to-face, with plenty of feedback and even confrontation when necessary.
    The office decor was more contemporary than Martin would have chosen on his own. It had been Katherine’s creation. In the end, he had been surprised at how comfortable he felt with it. His desk was a tinted glass slab, resting on two black lacquered platforms. Behind the imposing black leather executive chair were Formica bookcases, well-stocked, the books neatly arranged. Another bookcase ran the length of a second wall, a third wall was devoted to diplomas and awards, and the fourth was adorned with three matching pastel collages.
    Beneath the diplomas was the patient’s couch – Martin wanted them looking at him, not