Delusion: A Mystery

Delusion: A Mystery

From the acclaimed author of Amnesia and Addiction comes the story of a paranoid man accused of killing his wife-is he ill, or is he a great actor trying to get away with murder? Forensic neuropsychologist at Boston's prestigious Pearce Psychiatric Center and expert defense witness Peter Zak regularly testifies at murder trials on issues like a defendant's conception of right and wrong or the reliability of a witness's memory. This time a lawyer calls Peter to the scene of a crime-Nick Babikian has just found his wife brutally stabbed and floating in their backyard pool. The lawyer wants Peter to assess Nick's state of mind. A brilliant but paranoid man who's made millions inventing and marketing his own computer role-playing game, he was working in the house while his wife was stabbed, and he's certain to be accused of wielding the knife. Nick claims his innocence, but he has no proof, though certainly some of what he claims seems true. For example, there are signs his wife was having an affair. And oddly, the longer they work together, the more Peter relates to Nick's feelings. For Peter himself becomes more and more convinced that his own wife's killer, a man who's supposed to be serving life in prison, is somehow tormenting him at home and at work. It's up to Peter to separate fact from fiction in this chilling entry in a masterful series. Forensic psychologist Peter Zak, hired to determine whether Nick Babikian's paranoia led him to stab his wife to death, is feeling a little paranoid himself. Despite the fact that the man who murdered his own wife is in prison, Peter has reason to believe that Ralston Bridges is behind the break-ins at his house, the tricks being played on his girlfriend, even the illegally installed surveillance system he discovers in his home. Is Babikian's paranoia catching, or is Bridges, a patient at the same mental hospital where Nick is being held, actually manipulating Peter with the help of an outside accomplice? And why is the detective assigned to the case so anxious to pin the murder on someone that he's ignoring important evidence from Nick's own in-house security system? Fans of Jonathan Kellerman and Stephen White, take note: here's a psychological thriller that's chilling enough to make you wonder who's watching you, too. --Jane Adams G. H. Ephron is actually a two-person team - writer Hallie Ephron and practicing forensic neuropsychologist Donald A. Davidoff, Ph.D. Both live in Massachusetts. Visit their Web site at www.peterzak.com.   1I WOKE up craving watermelon. My mouth watered for a bite of a brilliant pink slice. I opened my eyes. I was lying on my stomach, my arm hanging off the edge of the bed. For a moment, I wasn’t sure where I was. Numbers glowing radioactive green on a digital clock told me it was two in the morning, but my clock didn’t have green numbers. Light and shadows danced against a wallpaper of cabbage roses. This was definitely not my bedroom.The smell of watermelon was still potent in the air, overlaid now by the heady scent of musk, like a ripe Brie. I inhaled, feeling a delicious languorousness as the sweet, sharp smells worked their way up the back of my nose and filled my head.I closed my eyes and savored the rush of memory. I was at Annie’s. My car was at the mechanic’s—a busted timing chain was more than I cared to tackle—so Annie had picked me up at work and driven me to her place for dinner. And no, we hadn’t eaten any. A pound and a half of prime aged Angus beef was still sitting on Annie’s kitchen counter, alongside a bunch of asparagus with half the bottoms snapped off, a loaf of French bread, and an open bottle of a Ridge Zin.That sweet smell was Annie. The Brie was us. We’d left behind no dirty dishes, just a trail of discarded clothing starting in the kitchen and ending in Annie’s bedroom hallway. I wondered if forensics could lift body prints from walls and carpeting, because there would be several to find, marking our slow progress to the bed.Why it had taken us nearly a year finally to … that was another story. My wife, Kate, would have been horrified that it took so long. She wouldn’t have wanted me to entomb that side of me in her grave. But I hadn’t been ready, and I hadn’t been ready, and then I still hadn’t been ready. I tell my patients, Listen to your feelings, listen, and do what you’re ready to do when you’re ready to do it. Grief takes its own good time.After so long, I’d seriously wondered if everything still worked. It did—sensationally.I rolled over. Annie was awake in bed beside me, propped up on her elbow staring at me. Around her face, a halo of reddish-brown curls was backlit by a pair of candles flickering on the bedside table behind her. Golden candlelight poured over her hip, dipped to her waist, and then spread up across her upper arm and shoulder. Her smile radiated contentment.“You up?” she asked.I reached out and ran my hand gently over her cheek, down her nose, her lips. She sucked on my fing