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“What?” I shrieked. “What the hell does that even mean?”
The two cops exchanged a nervous glance. “We’re not sure yet,” the other replied. He swallowed nervously. “But we’ll need to speak with you, along with the other members of Mr. Bennett’s family.”
Hot tears spilled down my face and I buried my cheeks in my hands, not wanting them to see. In just a few seconds, my chest was heaving with sobs and I could barely breathe. It didn’t seem real – Michael, dead? How could that even be possible? Just this morning, he’d left and promised that he’d be home late.
Our fight from the night before came thundering back into my mind like a runaway freight train. The guilt was immediate and all-consuming. I wanted to die, I wanted to melt into the floor and disappear. This is my fault, I thought. If I’d just agreed to have sex with him, this never would have happened. He wouldn’t have done something stupid and gotten himself killed.
“Ma’am?” The cop leaned down. “Can you come with us, please?”
Numbly, I sat up and looked around. Heather was nowhere in sight – it took me a moment to realize that not much time had passed at all. I can’t believe this, I thought as I glanced around the living room in a blind panic. This isn’t happening.
“This isn’t happening,” I mumbled, crawling to my hands and knees and standing up. My skimpy dress was falling down but I didn’t even care. One of the cops blushed, then reached into the closet and pulled out a jacket – it was one of Michael’s workout hoodies. I cried out as he draped the soft fabric around my shoulders. Immediately, Michael’s scent flooded over me and I fought the urge to scream and push past the cops and run outside and never come back.
My fiancé, Michael, was dead. And I knew in my heart that I’d never be the same ever again.
The cops sat me down on the couch. One of them made a strong cup of coffee while the other went upstairs and told Heather what had happened. She ran down and wrapped an arm around me, pulling me close on the couch and burying my face in her neck. It was comforting, but part of me wanted to pull away and laugh. This was absurd – Michael wasn’t dead! There had to be some kind of mistake! He was too careful, too cautious – he’d never have put himself in a dangerous situation like this.
“This can’t be happening,” I whispered to Heather. “This isn’t real. Michael isn’t dead.”
Heather’s pretty face broke. “Oh, Beth,” she said softly. “I’m so sorry.” She wrapped her arms around me and pulled me close. “I promise, I’ll be there for you,” she said. “Do you want me to come downtown to the station?”
I shook my head. I felt numb, almost like my blood had been replaced with som
ething sterile and chemical.
“No,” I said softly. “This…this isn’t happening. Michael can’t be dead! He can’t be!”
The two cops exchanged a glance. “Ma’am, we’re sorry, but we need to be moving on,” one of them said slowly. “Are you able to come downtown with us?”
I swallowed and nodded slowly.
Heather helped me off the couch and out of the house. She turned off the oven and I started crying again as I thought about the half-baked cheesecake that would be ruined by the time I got home. I’m so sorry, Michael, I thought as I climbed into the backseat of the cop car. I tried. I really did. I loved you as best I could.
Riding in a cop car made the whole situation seem even more surreal. The station was a whirling buzz of activity – detained people on benches, in handcuffs. Cops bustled back and forth, carrying manila folders stuffed with papers and greasy paper bags of fast food burgers and fries. They all ignored me – I was just a girl with red eyes in a party dress with a baggy, stained hoodie draped over my shoulders. I might have been in for drunk driving, or disorderly conduct. It didn’t matter that I was grieving – my fiancé was dead. Heather sat next to me the whole time, squeezing my hand and glaring at anyone who dared to glance at us for more than a few seconds at a time. She was a good friend, but I was barely able to stay focused. It felt like the rug had been pulled out from beneath my life, and now I had no idea what I was supposed to do.
Nothing mattered anymore.
A man in a suit with messy, unkempt hair walked up to us. He was holding a clipboard. When he got closer, he looked at me over the rims of his vintage glasses.
“Ms. Wilson?”
I nodded numbly.
“Please come with me,” he said curtly.
I glanced at Heather, suddenly afraid to leave her. “What about my friend?”
The man glanced at Heather with disdain. “She can come and wait outside the room,” he said.
“She can’t come in with me?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“What the hell,” Heather demanded. “Can’t you tell that Beth is upset? Her fiancé is dead,” she said loudly. “She needs me!”
“It’s okay,” I said quietly. Heather’s words had attracted the attention of everyone around us. “I’ll be okay.”
The man nodded. “I’ll take good care of her,” he said. This time, his voice was tinged with empathy. “She’ll be okay.”
