A psychoanalyst's sanity unravels when several patients die and she falls for the private investigator she's hired to help.
Sigmund Freud would have liked Dr. Nora Goodman, a sexy forty-something psychoanalyst with her handful of neurotic patients who can't seem to allow themselves happiness, love, or success. She's not exactly a steady customer herself, born to a ranting bipolar Talmudic scholar and a mother with a heart as cold as a slaughterhouse on the Kansas prairie? in January. But now she has two kids and an overbearing psychiatrist husband. She hates him. She hates his insular social world. Nora wants a new life sans husband, but what she gets is something terribly different. It starts one Monday morning when her eight o'clock patient blows himself to smithereens. The following week, another patient dies. The police see the first as an accident, the second a straightforward suicide. Nora thinks her practice is being targeted by a killer. She hires private investigator Mike Ruiz, a tightly wound ex-cop who couldn't care less for Sigmund. "Oh, Freud," Mike says. "Isn't he dead??" Freud is always watching while the unlikely pair struggle to an unexpected end.