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There’s a knock. “Everything okay in there, babe?”
Ollie pushes the door open and sees the flailing baby and me. His brow knits. He storms over to Freddie and scoops him up. “What the hell, Laura?”
His flash of moodiness snaps me out of my state. “I’m fine.” I’m suddenly contrite. “Sorry. Freddie’s just fussy. But it’s not a big deal.”
“He’s been carrying on for five minutes at least.” Ollie gives me a strange look while rubbing figure eights on our baby’s back. “You’re not even dressed?”
I turn back to my closet. My whole body feels like it’s stuffed with tiny pins.Just pick something,I tell myself, but my mind is moving so slow. Is this really happening? Am I really going toGreg Strasser’s funeral?It’s inconceivable to think that Greg didn’t wake this morning to go on his predawn bike ride. That he hadn’t gotten his regularhard-boiled eggs at the hospital cafeteria, thanking Gladys, who ran the cash registers, on his way out. That he was no longer breathing. No longerthinking.No longer hating me.
Ollie stands at the full-length mirror, Freddie still in his arms. “I’ll take him,” I offer, reaching out. It’s paranoid, probably, but I don’t like him standing with Freddie in front of a mirror.
Ollie angles the baby away. “It’s fine.”
Cowed, I turn to the closet again. But then I feel eyes on my back. “Babe.” Ollie sounds worried. “What’s that on your leg?”
“What’s what?” I ask, feigning ignorance.
“There’s a big scratch.”
I don’t have to look down to know where he’s pointing. The jagged scratch on my calf is redder today, scabbed over. I touch it gently. “Tree branch, I guess. Freddie and I went walking in the woods yesterday afternoon.” I make a quick mental calculation: Yesterday afternoon, the weather had been gray but warm. A walk could have occurred.
Ollie nods. The tension has loosened from his face when he sees that I’m choosing a dress and shoes. “So everything went okay with Reardon yesterday?”
I’m glad I’m facing the closet, for I wouldn’t want Ollie to see my stricken expression. He means Detective Reardon, the lead detective working Greg’s case. Reardon called me in for questioning because Greg and I worked together.
“It was fine.” I hate the hitch in my voice. “It’s not like I had anything to tell him.” I yank a cardigan from a hanger. “Do they have any leads on the killer?”
I can sense Ollie stiffening. “You know I can’t discuss that with you, babe.”
My stomach contracts. I try to nod, to understand, but I wish he’d tell me something, anything. Whom do the cops suspect? How much do theyknow? And how much, by association, does Ollie know?
“I will say that it’s been more complicated because they can’t find the weapon,” Ollie suddenly pipes up. “Once they do, they’ll have their guy. Or girl.”
I feel the muscles in my cheeks twitch. “What if the weaponisn’tfound?”
“Oh, they’ll find it.” Ollie swings around for the door, Freddie in tow. “Reardon’s search team is the best. They’re really digging into Strasser’s life. I have a feeling those e-mails that broke in the hack are just the tip of the iceberg of what he was hiding.” He shakes his head ruefully. “Goes to show you really don’t know anyone.”
I open my jewelry box. I’m not really an accessories girl, but I need to do something with my hands. Ollie is right, though. Greg was hiding things. Things far bigger than those silly e-mails. A heat comes over me, prickling behind my eyes. I feel I might faint.Keep it together, Laura,I tell myself.Get through this.
I need a moment alone to collect myself, so I give Ollie a warm smile. “Can you take Freddie downstairs and make him a bottle? I’ve already thawed some breast milk. It’s on the counter.”
When I went to the police station, I’d had all my answers worked out. Reardon had a kind, gentle demeanor, but I could tell he wouldn’t go easy on anyone. “You hear about those e-mails of Strasser’s that were leaked?” he asked me.
“We all did. A lot of nurses thought they would ruin his reputation as a surgeon.”
“Any idea who the woman is?”
I shook my head. Did he believe me? It was hard to gauge by his unwavering expression.
Then he asked about the benefit. I told him about Kit Manning-Strasser hurriedly downing a martini, and how Greg was absent, and how the reporters were questioning everyone about the hack. I said how dreadfully stuffy and pretentious the whole night was, especially because I was alone. Then Reardon wanted to know where I wentafterthe benefit.
I halted. “Why does that matter?”
“We’re trying to put together an accurate picture of where everyone was.” He sipped his coffee. “Dotting ouri’s, crossing ourt’s.”
I could feel my palms going clammy. “Am I a suspect?”
“No, no, of course not.” He raised one of his bushy eyebrows. “Unless you have something to tell me...”
