He’d better not get too close or touch anything. The cops wouldn’t take too kindly to anyone messing up the crime scene. He knew that much.

He hoped he hadn’t trampled on any of the blood around the body. He checked the bottoms of his shoes. Nope. It seemed to be all right.

He strode back to the mess on the ground, stared at the body a moment longer, and then figured it was probably time to call the cops.

Chapter 4

Tuesday, 8:43 a.m.

ADAM THORBURN sat on the edge of his bed, dropped his head back, and yawned. Another sleepless night was past. He hated not being able to sleep and wished he could pop a pill and pass out for the night.

But his mother had been firm about that. He was on enough medication as it was, and a sleeping pill, along with his antipsychotic medications, could cause a bad reaction.

He hated the term antipsychotic. It made it sound like he was psychotic, but he wasn’t. He was schizophrenic—a huge difference. But he hated being schizophrenic too. At only twenty-three years old, he would have to put up with it for a good long time. The doctor said he’d have it for the rest of his life.

Adam yawned again, brushed back his bristling dark hair with one hand, and stood. He was supposed to be at work by nine but would never make it. He was tired of pushing supermarket carts around, anyway. Not that he was lazy. Far from it. He just didn’t see any future in it, and frankly, didn’t see much of a future for himself at all.

He hated walking to work, too. It only took twenty minutes or so, but it was an annoyance. He’d had a driver’s license and an old beat-up Ford when he was younger, but they’d taken his license away years ago. They said it wasn’t safe for him to drive.

But his mother insisted he work at whatever job he could land, and he complied—most of the time. She said they needed the money. Her skimpy paycheck barely paid for the basic necessities, and his medication was a drain on the family budget.

Not that it was much of a family. Just him and his mother. His father had been dead for almost a year now. He’d usually gotten along pretty well with his father, but when the old man had been drunk, his father had had some awful arguments with his mother. Seemed like they were at each other’s throats a lot of the time.

Adam pulled on his jeans, yesterday’s socks, and a faded t-shirt. His shirts barely fit anymore. The paunch he’d developed made sure of that. He wasn’t really fat, but he’d put on an extra twenty pounds or so lately, and it was showing in his face as well.

He didn’t care all that much about how he looked anymore. Mostly, he hung around all day, worked at the supermarket for a while, and wasted the rest of the time. He had no friends. He hoped to find a girlfriend someday, but that was almost laughable. What girl would want to hang around with a schizo? Maybe another schizo. Adam laughed aloud. What a great combination that would be. They could have little schizo babies. What fun.

The thing that irked him most about other people was they thought he was mentally challenged—retarded, they called him. But he had an above-average IQ, wasn’t all that bad looking despite the extra weight, and could usually carry on an intelligent conversation. If he was antisocial, it was because they made him that way. It affected his schoolwork to such a degree, he’d dropped out to get away from the bullies and the so-called normal people who shunned him.

To make things worse, he’d been having more and more blackouts lately. There were periods of time when he had no idea what went on or where he had been. His mother had said it would pass. She insisted that the family was going through a rough time, and it affected him in strange ways. He sure hoped she was right.

Dr. Zalora wasn’t much help either. He said pretty much the same thing as his mother—“The death of his father caused him additional problems. It’ll get easier in time, and the periods of blackouts will vanish. Take the medication and you’ll do fine,” was all the doctor had said.

“Adam.” It was his mother calling from downstairs.

He opened the bedroom door. “Be down in a minute,” he called.

Adam went into the bathroom in the hallway, splashed some water on his face, and wiped it dry, taking a last look at himself in the mirror. He ran a comb through his hair. It didn’t do anything; his hair was too short.

When he went downstairs, his mother was waiting for him in the kitchen, sitting forward at the kitchen table, her arms resting on top, her fingers woven together. He stopped short at her unsmiling face.

“Sit down,” she said. Her eyes were angry, her voice stern. Something was up.

Adam sat at the other end of the table and leaned forward, his hands on his knees. “What’s going on?”

She spoke in an accusing voice. “Where’d you go last night?”

Adam frowned, thinking hard. “I didn’t go anywhere. I watched TV while you were gone, then I went to bed.”

“Did you have another blackout?” she asked, her tone unchanged.

“I … I don’t think so. I don’t always remember when I do.”

She sighed and sat back, her eyes drilling into his, her lips in a firm line.

“Is everything all right?” Adam asked.

His mother shook her head. “You smashed up my car,” she said. “I shouldn’t have left the keys lying around, but I never thought—”

Adam interrupted. “Are you saying I took your car out?”

She sighed again. “I’m afraid you did. I had a few beers last night with Mabel and got home late. I didn’t see the damage when I got back, but this morning, there it was.” She shrugged. “The front is smashed up.”

Adam took a sharp breath and held it. He must have had another blackout. Sometimes he did crazy things during the blackouts, and now he’d smashed up his mother’s car.

He let out his breath slowly. “I’m sorry, Mom,” he said, sinking his head into his hands.

His mother said nothing.

He raised his head and gave her a hopeful look. “Does it still run?”

“I guess it does,” she said. “You drove it home again. But it looks like the bumper and one fender is smashed.”

He pleaded with his eyes. “I’m really sorry.”

She picked at her nail polish, scraping some remnants from a thumb. She brushed the scrapings aside and looked at Adam. “I guess it’s not your fault.”

He hesitated, then said, “My blackouts are happening more often.” He sat back and closed his eyes a moment, taking a deep breath. “I feel like I’m losing my mind sometimes.”

“Are you taking your meds?” she asked.

He nodded. “Always.”

“All right,” she said and stood. “Take a hammer to the fender. See if you can fix it up a bit. It should be okay.” She held up a finger. “But don’t drive it anywhere.”

“I won’t.”

“Are you not going to work today?”

He shrugged. “I don’t feel up to it. I might go in later. They won’t fire me. It’s too hard to find anyone else to do my lousy job.”

She leaned back against the counter and crossed her arms. “Get my car fixed up right away,” she said. “I need to go out later. And I can drive you to work if you want to go.”

He nodded, avoiding her gaze as she looked at him. Finally, her slippers padded across the floor as she left the kitchen, leaving him alone at the table.

He was worried. He would have to go outside and check out the car. He hoped he hadn’t run into another vehicle. That wouldn’t be good, but what worried him most was his blackout spells. He didn’t hear the voices in his head very often anymore. At least not lately, and he was glad of that. They told him to do some pretty crazy things, and told him some whopping lies, but now it looked like things might’ve taken a turn for the worse in a different way.