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Joe is lost.
A sudden widower, he is alone in the trendy apartment he had earned at a great cost to himself. He has nowhere to look but back.
His wife Maya violently murdered, the next week of Joe’s life is a dizzying whirl of revelations and cigarette smoke as he reflects on their time together in the effort to uncover who killed her and why.
On his journey, Joe reluctantly finds and faces himself.
Excerpt:
"Ashes
from Joe’s cigarette fell right onto the hardwood floor underneath his naked
feet as his heart beat wildly inside his chest. His forehead was perspiring a
bit from the three sets of eyes on him.
The Q
train rattled outside the window, rushing to Manhattan, screeching right over
his racing mind. Still, despite the loud distraction, he could practically
taste the falafel on Maya when their tongues touched that first time.
He
remembered that his overstuffed backpack was heavy on his back when he had hightailed
it against the grain of the crowd, elbowing and pushing shoppers at that
Jerusalem outdoor market until he had found her amid the herd. He’d left his
not very Semitic-looking, though thoroughly olive-skinned, roommate hanging
mid-word somewhere ahead. He had to act before hesitation and cold feet had the
chance to take over.
He
scoffed at the memory, to the bewilderment of all three sets of eyes, noting
but not minding their arched brows, and continued to smoke in heavy, thick
silence. He wiped his free, sweating palm on his blue t-shirt, sliding it down
to his jeans. Unsure as to what to do with his hand then, he slicked back his
damp blond hair and scrubbed his face, wishing he’d trimmed his mustache before
the cops had gotten there."
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