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“I was asleep,” I lie, plastering a smile on my face. “Sorry.”
“Mind if I come in?”
“Sure.” I extend my arm out and open the door wider before walking back into the living room and taking a seat on the couch.
“What happened there?”
I follow his gaze and look down at the gauze on my hand. It’s still wrapped tightly around my palm, a little spot of dried blood soaked through the bandage.
“Wineglass,” I say, holding it up. “Cut it pretty bad.”
“Huh.”
He continues to stare, his eyes darting back and forth between my face and my hand.
“So, what can I do for you?” I ask, trying to change the subject.
“There’s been a… development,” he says at last. “In your case. Wanted to come by and tell you myself.”
I look up at him, eyes tight, like I just opened them underwater in a bathtub full of chlorine. I’ve spent the last forty-eight hours in a strange jumble of numbness and nerves, like my body doesn’t quite know how it should respond. I’ve felt this way ever since I stood up slowly in Valerie’s living room, the crunch of glass beneath my shoes and the raggedness of my own breath amplified around me. Ever since I looked down at her lifeless body and those shards from the table, sharp and piercing, like dozens of daggers scattered across the floor.
Ever since I gazed into those wide-open eyes, glassy like porcelain, and the puddle of blood expanding beneath her. The absolute stillness of her chest.
“And what’s that?” I ask, even though I already know.
“I’m sure you’ve seen the news,” he says, taking a step forward. “About the murder of Valerie Sherman.”
“Yes,” I say, nodding. It’s been all over, of course: the latest craze. A young, attractive woman found dead in her home, in a pool of her own blood. “Burglary gone wrong, I heard.”
“That was the original theory,” he says. “Broken coffee table, the house in disarray. But the more we looked at it, the more it seemed off. Staged.”
I clench my fingers. “Staged?”
“Like someone was trying to fake a break-in,” he continues, eying me. “Similar to cracking open a window to try to fake a kidnapping.”
I can feel my heart hammering in my chest, my palms getting slick with sweat.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“As I’m sure you know by now, Valerie was in a relationship with your husband. Had been for quite a while. While you two were still married.”
“Yes,” I say, nodding. “Yes, I’m aware.”
“We found pictures of him in the home,” he says. “Other…belongingsthat appear to be his.”
I’m quiet, letting him continue. Only speak when spoken to, a trick my father taught me.
“After her death hit the news, we got a phone call from a client of hers,” he says at last. “Valerie was a therapist. She ran a weekly grief counseling group out of the cathedral downtown. Had quite a few regulars.”
I nod.
“According to this client, he saw the two of you interacting on the night of Mason’s vigil.”
I remember that man who had shuffled in, breaking up our conversation before it could even start. The apology in his eyes as he hobbled past, taking a seat. Eying us quietly from the corner, listening.
“Did you know who she was then?” Dozier asks. “Her relationship with your husband?”
“No,” I say, the first authentic thing I’ve said all day. “No, I didn’t. I had no idea.”
