I squeeze my palms together behind my back. That was before. Way before. I am not her anymore. I am more in control. I have been around him a hundred times. I have bought a car. Grocery shopped. Walked around humans and came back with clean hands. I wouldn’t have hurt him. Not six times. He is stronger than me, he can control me; he’s done so many times before.

A blur of his face, concerned, his grip on my skin, a tightening of his features, the hard jerk of his elbow across my face, and a blinding sea of red pain.

I push my face into the table and wince at the pain that courses from my nose. Why can I not remember?

The knob jiggles and then the door swings open and both detectives fill the doorway. I take a deep breath.

She sits, he stands. I slouch back in my seat and stare at the floor. Think better of it and lift my head. “May I ask a few questions?”

The woman stops some complicated process of shuffling papers and looks up. “Not right now. After our questioning, you’ll have the opportunity to ask questions. That’s assuming your questions relate to the nature of the crime, and not to your rights or your judicial process. Those questions should be answered by an attorney.”

I nod, she nods, and we’re one big nodding family. I look at the man but he doesn’t participate. “Are you waiving your right to an attorney?” the woman asks.

“For now.”

She sets down the final piece of paper and looks at me. She has a fresh pimple, on the right side of her chin, and I perversely wonder if the stress of this entire investigation is what put it there. Probably not. My attempted murder charge is most likely small potatoes in her world of crime. I feel, for one ridiculous moment, criminally inadequate. She probably wants to wrap this baby shit up and go tackle a real danger to society. She lets out a breath and it sounds like a sigh. “Everything you say in this room is being recorded and can be used in a trial. Should you decide you’d like an attorney, we will stop questioning you until the moment upon which an attorney is secured. Do you understand?”

“I’d like to go ahead and get this over with.”

“As would we. This will go a lot quicker if you are honest with us.” She looks at me and I wonder what she doesn’t understand about getting this over with. After a long, wasteful moment, she continues.

“Where were you Sunday night?”

“At home.”

“Were you alone?”

I hesitate. “Yes.”

A blur of his face, concerned, his grip on my skin, a tightening of his features, the hard jerk of his elbow across my face, and a blinding sea of red pain.

I bite my lip. “I think so.”

“Explain.”

“Jeremy had come over… earlier. I mean, I spent that day with Jeremy and he dropped me off at my house that night.”

Brenda had pulled a pen out and held it to the paper, scribbling down words as I spoke. She stops, the pen tip pausing. A red pen. Those notes would be hell to read later, like lines of blood. “Did he come into your apartment?”

“I love you too.” I grabbed his hand and pulled, his back lifting from the wall as he followed me.

“Yes.” The crack in the wall of my memories crumbles, and a fresh wave pushes through. Nothing new, information I’ve known. Information I’ve hid from. Information that runs without brakes down a path that falls off a cliff.

“What time was that?”

I blink and twist my lips, considering the question. “I’m not really sure. Before nine. Probably seven or eight. I remember thinking we’d have time… before Simon locked me in…”

“Time for what?” The man steps forward, leaning over the table and placing his hands on the surface, his left pinky on top of one of Brenda’s pages. I see her glance at it and look away. I don’t look away. I look up, into his dark black face, and wonder if he has a daughter, one my age. He’s certainly old enough. That’s gray in the sides of his hair.

“To fuck.” I enunciate the answer and watch him flinch. I like his flinch.

“And did you?” the woman drawls out the question, without missing a beat.

I look away from the man. “I don’t think so.”

“It’s not the sort of thing most women forget,” he says quietly.

“No.” I bite the inside of my cheek. “We didn’t.”

“Why not?” God, this woman was pushy. And nosy.

Yes, Deanna, why not? I remember stepping in the apartment, my hand in Jeremy’s. Then… all I can remember is red. And Jeremy swinging. And… somewhere at some point…

Closing my hand around the butt of the knife, feeling the indents in the grip when I palmed it, a surge of pleasure at the illicit contact.

I swallow the memory and taste bile in my throat. “Sometimes,” I say slowly, “you know… you just don’t.”

My bones crunched, like potato chips under the heel of a boot, and my fury, in that moment, exploded.

“Deanna? Deanna?” a hand waves before me and I focus on it. Dark palm, strong fingers, a wedding band. He probably does have a daughter. He should get home to her, and leave me alone. Brenda and I will be just fine.

“What?” I snap.

“You came home and did what?”

“He just dropped me off.” If I say the words slowly, they will be more true. “Then he left.”

“And Simon locked you in.”

“Yes.”

The man sighs. “Deanna, we’ve spoken to Simon.”

This is news. I don’t know why I’m surprised. Alibis need to be verified, words can’t be trusted. But it’s as if the sentence opens up a new door of invasion. I suddenly remember Dr. Derek’s call. They had spoken to him. And now Simon. Who else? How much of my inner circle had been touched? And what had they discovered in the process? I push back the handcuff on my right side. It’s irritating, like a heavy bracelet that I keep forgetting I can’t slide off. “So? What did he say?”

“He said he didn’t lock your door last night. He said that you told him not to.” The woman’s eyes watch me closely, each dart of them quick and precise.

I frown. That’s… odd. I’ve based so much of my innocence assumption on the fact that I was locked in. I wonder, a piece of my brain breaking off and skittering off on its own path of worry, if Simon mentioned, during this voice vomit, any other nights where he didn’t lock me in. That could be problematic, a loose thread that, if pulled, could lead to… Wait, what? Could lead to me, sitting in a police station, being questioned? Could lead to my sins being exposed, my punishment delivered? I am already here, the house of cards has already fallen, my dam has broken and all of my safeguards are gone. I left the apartment. I got into a stranger’s car and am in a strange room with a new fate. The what-ifs of my past… I can’t worry about them now. I have bigger problems here. Like why I told Simon not to lock me in. “I thought you said that Jeremy fell from my window.” Fell. Not pushed. Never pushed.

The woman nods.

“So…” I shift in my seat. “No offense, but why do you care if Simon locked me in? The lock on my door doesn’t affect whether or not I pushed Jeremy from the window.” Fell. Not pushed. I pinch the thin skin on the inside of my wrist as punishment.

“He was moved. After he fell.”

I see the tension in the man’s frame when the woman speaks, the quick turn of his head in her direction. He didn’t want her to say that, to share that, to give me that piece of the puzzle. I want to join him, to go another step further and hold my hand over her mouth, shove back the words deeper down until they stay. He was moved. I close my eyes and try to remember if my bare feet had pricks of asphalt. Try to remember if my tennis shoes had moved, if my clothes had had anything on them other than the blood from my nose. I work through the layers, try to find my thought process though… when I’m red, there is often none. “So… you are saying that I asked Simon to not lock my door, then I pushed Jeremy out, ran downstairs, and moved his body.”