Mr. Murder

receded across Orange County apparently to infinity.
        She would have enjoyed a panoramic ocean vista or a window on a lushly planted courtyard, but that would have meant higher rent, which had been out of the question during the early years of Marty's writing career when she'd been their primary breadwinner.
        Now, in spite of his growing success and impressive income, obligating herself to a pricier lease at a new location was still imprudent.
        Even a prospering literary career was an uncertain living.
        The owner of a fresh-produce store, when ill, had employees who would continue to sell oranges and apples in his absence, but if Marty became ill, the entire enterprise screeched to a halt.
        And Marty was ill. Perhaps seriously.
        No, she wouldn't think about that. They knew nothing for sure.
        It was more like the old Paige, the pre-Marty Paige, to worry about mere possibilities instead of about only what was already fact.
        Appreciate the moment, Marty would tell her. He was a born therapist.
        Sometimes she thought she'd learned more from him than from the courses she had taken to earn her doctorate in psychology.
        Appreciate the moment.
        In truth the constant bustle of the scene beyond the window was invigorating. And whereas she had once been so predisposed to gloom that bad weather could negatively affect her mood, all of these years with Marty and his usually unshakable good cheer had made it possible for her to see the somber beauty in an oncoming storm.
        She had been born and raised in a loveless house as grim and cold as any arctic cavern. But those days were far behind her, and the effect of them had long ago diminished.
        Appreciate the moment.
        Checking her watch, she pulled the drapes shut because the mood of her next two clients was not likely to be immune to the influence of gray weather.
        When the windows were covered, the place was as cozy as any parlor in a private home. Her desk, books, and files were in the third office, rarely seen by those she counseled. She always met with them in this more welcoming room. The floral-pattern sofa with its variety of throw pillows lent a lot of charm, and each of three plushly upholstered armchairs was commodious enough to permit young guests to curl up entirely on the seat with their legs tucked under them if they wished.
        Celadon lamps with fringed silk shades cast a warm light that glimmered in the bibelots on the end tables and in the glazes of Lladro porcelain figurines in the mahogany breakfront.
        Paige usually offered hot chocolate and cookies, or pretzels with a cold glass of cola, and conversation was facilitated because the overall effect was like being at Grandma's house. At least it was how Grandma's house had been in the days when no grandma ever underwent plastic surgery, had herself reconfigured by liposuction, divorced Grandpa to Vegas with her boyfriend for the weekend.
        Most clients, on their first visit, were astonished not to find the collected works of Freud, a therapy couch, and the too-solemn atmosphere of a psychiatrist's office. Even when she reminded them that she was not a psychiatrist, not a medical doctor at all, but a counselor with a degree in psychology who saw "clients" rather than "patients," people with communication problems rather than neuroses or psychoses, they remained bewildered for the first half an hour or so.
        Eventually the room-and, she liked to think, her relaxed approach-won them over.
        Paige's two o'clock appointment, the last of the day, was with Samantha Acheson and her eight-year-old son, Sean. Samantha's first husband, Sean's father, had died shortly after the boy's fifth birthday.
        Two and a half years later, Samantha remarried, and Sean's behavioral problems began virtually on the wedding day, an obvious result of his misguided conviction that she had betrayed his dead father and might one day betray him as well. For five months, Paige had met twice a week with the boy, winning his trust, opening lines of communication, so they could discuss the pain and fear and anger he was unable to talk about with his mother. Today, Samantha was to participate for the first time, which was an important step because progress was usually swift once the child was ready to say to the parent what he had said to his counselor.
        She sat in the armchair she