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“I know this is a shock, Mrs. Dunaway,” the detective tells me. He’s not sure if he means it. He’s sizing me up, trying to gauge what I know. “Forgive me,” he says glancing at my statement. “I just want to make sure we have this straight.”
I stare at the cold, hard metal table. I’ve been here before. As a little girl. Not to this police station. But they’re pretty much all the same. “Did Mr. Hastings ever give any indication that he might want to kill his wife?” It’s Dr. Hastings, but I won’t bother to correct him. I don’t want it to seem like I’m in alliance with the other side. This, and I don’t know what Max has told them. I don’t know what reasons—if any—they might have for considering my involvement.
“I’ve offered a written statement,” I say, placing one fingertip on the stack of papers. “It’s all there.”
“I understand,” the female detective says. “But sometimes it’s good for us to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth.”
“Sometimes Max scared me. But I didn’t think he was capable of murder….” I took a deep breath and looked down at the table. I twist my wedding rings and shake my head. I do not look at either of them. My tears fall against the table. I feel something soft graze my arm. I look up. Tissues.
“No,” I say. “I mean, if I’d thought that he’d kill her, I never would have—” I pause and make a point to be careful in my admissions. “I never would have slept with him.”
“Did he ever give any indication that he wanted to end things with his wife and take up with you?”
“No. Never.”
“Did you assume that might happen? Had you asked him to leave Mrs. Hastings?”
I note the way he says her name, as though he’s trying to evoke a reaction out of me. “Our relationship really wasn’t like that,” I confess, pausing to look genuinely sorry. “I never would have asked Max to do such a thing.”
“And why is that?”
“I just didn’t feel that way toward him. I’m in love with my husband.”
“Yet, you were having an affair,” the female detective chimes in.
“Sex and love are not mutually exclusive,” I say, and I can tell her counterpart is satisfied. He has all the answers he wants. He does not intend to question me further. She, on the other hand, isn’t so sure. “Where were you on the night of Mrs. Hastings’s murder?”
“My husband and I attended a dinner party.”
“And how did you first hear about Nina Hasting’s death?”
“On the news, I suppose. Just like everyone else.”
“Were you surprised?”
“I was in shock.”
“What did you do after you heard?”
“I spoke with my husband about it.”
“So he was aware of the affair?”
“Yes.”
“When was the last time you’d spoken with Max Hastings?”
I take some time to think it over. “I can’t recall the date. But you have my phone records.”
“The affair had been over for several weeks at the time of Mrs. Hastings murder?”
“That’s correct.”
“What ended it?”
“I did.”
“Because your husband confronted you?”
