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“Mrs. Kearney?”
I don’t look up as a man and a woman in uniform approach my bed. I remember them trying to come in earlier, but the doctor had sent them away.
“Mrs. Kearney, I’m Detective Warren,” the man says. “We need to ask you some questions about what happened last night.”
Last night. Was it just last night? If I went back in time just a fraction of a day, could I fix it all? Could I stop myself from going up to Deklan’s table? Could I tell the Uber driver to take Kathy and me to a different bar? Could I go back to morning and breakfast in bed, opting for a day in instead of a night out?
“We have several witness statements, but we’d like to hear things from your side. Can you tell me what you remember?”
The events of the evening run through an alcohol-fugue filter in my head. Breakfast, tiara, shopping, martinis, shots, Deklan…
“Mrs. Kearney”—Warren moves to the side of the bed, closer to me—“we really need to know what happened.”
“Where’s Deklan?” I ask. “Where’s my husband?”
“He’s in custody,” Warren says.
“Why?”
“You’re bruised, Mrs. Kearney, and witnesses say there was an argument between you and your husband.”
I look up at the woman speaking, trying to remember if she had mentioned her name. She’s young. I wonder if it’s her first day on the job.
“Deklan didn’t hurt me.” I stare back down at the mattress. “It’s a misunderstanding.”
“And the gun found on him?”
“What about it?”
“A young woman is dead, Mrs. Kearney.” Detective Warren looks at me, his jaw set and his forehead creased. “I understand she was a friend of yours. The person who did this needs to be brought to justice before he does it again.” He crouches down until he’s eye level with me. “Kera, don’t you want justice for your friend?”
“Deklan didn’t shoot her.”
“Can you tell me who did?” Warren asks.
“I don’t know.”
“Can you tell me why Miss Jackson was holding a gun or where she might have gotten it?”
My stomach tightens up. I have no idea what I should do. Deklan didn’t do anything to Kathy, but she must have thought he was going to do something, or she wouldn’t have brought out the gun. I don’t even know whose name the gun is registered under or if it’s registered at all. Anything I might say sounds wrong, and I don’t want to say anything.
“Kera?” Right on cue, Deklan is suddenly standing in the doorway.
I stare at him. There’s rough stubble on his face, and he’s wearing the same clothes he had on last night. Our gazes lock, but I can’t understand the unfamiliar look in his eyes. Fear? Sadness? Panic? I can’t tell.
“I need to speak with my wife,” Deklan says with authority as he walks into the room and moves between the detective and the bed.
“We still have some questions.”
“They said you were in jail,” I say quietly.
“They let me out.” Deklan reaches forward tentatively and places his hand on my arm. “It’s all right, babe. Everything will be all right.”
I shake my head slowly.
“It’s not okay, Dek.” My voice breaks. “It’s not okay! It’s not!”
Deklan sits beside me and wraps his arms around me. I want to resist. I want to scream that it’s all his fault for being there with that…that man. But it’s not his fault. I know it isn’t.
