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"Mrs. Pickett, nothing was going on between us. I'm as clueless as you, although the town already seems to know more than me.
"Thank you so much for thinking of me. I'd love to stay and chat, but I have to go down to the station."
Why the hell did I say that? When would I stop putting my own damn foot in my mouth?
Her beady little eyes grew exponentially.
"Oh, my, my, what must that be like? Now don't you go saying everything you did! If you ask me, the old man had it coming! You were just looking out for yourself!"
I had no idea what else she could say to get an answer out of me—something she could share with her circle—but I wasn't falling for it.
I patted her shoulder firmly and turned her toward the door. "Thank you for dropping by, Mrs. Pickett. I appreciate you."
She stopped at the door and opened her mouth again, but I slammed the door in her face before she could speak clearly. Good.
I'd hear no end of this. I expected the neighborhood to come down on me with spears and more casseroles, but that was the least of my concerns.
My biggest worry was the fourteen missed calls and twenty unread messages from Mama. But I wanted to finish meeting the police first.
I wondered if they had any files on my history. I could only hope not.
A quick shower and a bite of toast later, I got in my rideshare. It took a bit to ignore the incessant stares coming from my co-passengers.
I was almost glad when I got down in front of the Central Precinct police station.
A tall, burly man led me into the interrogation room. His buzz cut revealed a scar on the right side of his scalp.
Deep wrinkles lined his face. His clothes were pressed and neat, and basic. No frills.
He sized me up with eyes of steel blue. This man wasn't going to take any nonsense.
"Ms. Davis. I'm Detective Jameson. Right at the onset, I'll clarify that you are not under arrest. We're here to talk about the death of Harold Montgomery."
I nodded.
"Where were you on the night of the incident?"
"Mr. Montgomery had invited me to the dinner party. I was at the table with all the other guests."
"You were present for his speech, I assume?"
"Yes."
"How would you describe your relationship with the victim?"
That stumped me a little. "Relationship?" I stammered, my eyes darting from his face to the table. "Sir, we didn't have a relationship. He used to come to the library where I work now and then."
"That library caters mostly to children, correct?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did you never find it odd that a man that old would keep visiting a children's library?"
I swallowed. "Sir, he had a thing for history and thought children's history books were more imaginative. I never talked to him outside the library."
"Yet you accepted his invite—although, in your own words, you never knew him outside your place of work—without hesitation?"
I had nothing to say to this, but a streak of stubbornness crept in.
