"That woman. I want you to tell me her name. Do not lie,” Val says.
I do not lie now.
I do not lie now because pretending now would be the thing that breaks me, and I have decided in the dark of the truck cab on the way home that I am not going to be broken in front of Val by my own pretending.
"Evangeline."
"Clark?”
"Yes, Chief."
"The missing woman. The Clark widow."
"Yes, Chief."
"In your cabin?”
"Yes, Chief."
"For how many days."
"Six."
"Six."
"Yes, Chief."
She is quiet a count.
"Hale."
"Chief."
"You pulled her out of the burning house?”
"Yes, Chief."
"On Monday night."
"Yes, Chief."
"You told me you didn't enter the structure."
"I lied, Chief."
"Yes."
"I lied to you Tuesday morning. I lied to you Wednesday. I have been lying to you for six days."
"Yes. You have.”
"Yes, Chief."
She is quiet. Ominously so.
She is quiet for a count I do not measure. I sit on the chopping block with my hands flat on the wood on either side of my thighs and I listen to her breathe. Her breath is the same breath she has at fire grounds. It is a breath I have set my own breath by for fourteen years.
"Why?” she says.
