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“Around then, yes, and after that too.”
“Okay…What about it?”
“I was hoping…can you say that again if it came up? Say we were together? Like you said to Luis?”
The fingernail has broken off and now it’s bleeding.
“What, that we were together?” she repeats.
“Please. Would you? Until maybe one? One thirty, maybe?”
“I don’t understand.”
“I mean you already said it to Luis, right? So I’m just asking that you don’t contradict yourself, that’s all. If it comes up. It’s just that I went out drinking…God, did I go out drinking!” I laugh, rub my forehead. “It’s not a good look right now, June. Especially after the presentation. So I’m just asking you this small favor. No biggie.”
She thinks about this, her eyes never leaving mine.
“You want me to say we were together.”
Frankly by now I thought that was obvious. “Yes.”
“In a bar, drinking.”
“Which we were.”
“Until one thirty a.m.”
“Yes, please.” I wait, fingers in my mouth. “If anyone asks.”
“But who’s going to ask?”
“I don’t know. Nobody probably.” I laugh, but only for a nanosecond. “It would be too embarrassing for me, if I were to explain. Retrace my steps. You understand?”
She thinks about it, then nods, slowly. “Okay.” And I feel such relief that I almost hug her. I get up and return the chair to its place. She gets up too, slowly, unsure, like she wants to ask me more.
“I’ll get Rohan to cover your class,” she says, one hand on the door.
“Oh, right, thanks,” I reply, sounding like I’ve forgotten she was still here.
Twenty-Nine
I sit there, waiting for the detective, unable to concentrate, my stomach clenching a little more with each passing minute. I open the drawer and pull out the necklace from where I dropped it earlier and shove it in the other drawer, the one at the bottom, so that it sits inside the staff directory. Should I tell the detective that I heard about Isabelle before he says anything? Yes, I probably should. Unless he’s here about something else, although that seems unlikely.
When he walks in at last, fifteen minutes late, I’m a mess of nerves.
“Detective Jones.” He smiles, extends his hand to me. For a crazy moment I wonder if that’s how they get people’s fingerprints, if they have a thin film over their fingers like an invisible glove, and after they shake your hand they surreptitiously slip the film into an evidence bag hidden in their pocket.
A beyond stupid and paranoid idea, obviously.
Still, better safe than sorry. I raise my palms. “Probably not, I just peeled an orange.” I grab a tissue and wipe my fingers. For a moment Detective Jones does not know what to do with his hand. He looks at it, and puts it in his jacket pocket. He glances at my desk, then at the almost full wastebasket on the floor. If he is thrown by the absence of orange peel, he doesn’t say.
“Please, sit down, Detective.”
“Thank you.” He tugs at the crease of his blue pants as he does so. He’s a big man, with a round face and a nice smile, and I tell myself it can’t be so bad if he’s smiling. Also there’s only one of him. That’s got to be a good sign too, surely.
He looks around, clearly impressed.
“This is nice.”
