I sigh, an action that buys me a moment to deliberate the wisdom of information sharing. “Simon lives a few doors down. He locks my door at night. So he can verify that he locked me inside last night, and I was here all night until he unlocked me.”

“Your door locks from the outside?” EyelinerCop finds this very interesting. I watch the tip of her pen, the increased tremor of it as it scratches against the page of her notebook.

“Yes.” I lift my eyes from the pen. “What evidence do you have against me?”

Her mouth widens into a grin, a stretch of raw lips that looks painful. I don’t like that grin, that tell that I just stepped into a pile of shit. “Why, Ms. Madden, what an interesting question. An innocent person would be more interested in finding out what crime was committed.”

“Who said I was an innocent person?”

CHAPTER 12

Present

“WHO SAID I was an innocent person?”

The response slipped out, snarky and unnecessary. I’d wanted to shut the cop up, to wipe that smug grin off her face. The question was much more passive than what I wanted to do. To spring across the table and claw at her neck, pulling and ripping the delicate cords of her throat. Yank at her belt and palm her service revolver. Celebrate the gun’s weight in my hand in the moment before I pointed the gun at her temple and pulled the trigger, her head exploding in one beautiful blood-splattering second. Take that, bulletproof vest. Compared to that scenario, my egotistic response was tame. Tame and stupid. The pair of detectives all but high-fived each other with their eye contact. I settled back in my chair and waited. Counted to ten and swore to behave.

The woman composes herself and speaks. “What are you guilty of, Ms. Madden?”

I wonder why she is in charge of this interaction. If it is her rank or if it is because they thought I’d associate with a woman more. Thought I would buddy up and confess away, all because a penis didn’t hang between her legs. I tap my fingers against the arm of the chair. “I’d like you both to leave now. Unless you have something to charge me with.”

They have to have something. Surely they didn’t show up at my apartment on a whim. I must have slipped up somewhere, forgotten something in my past crimes. Left a gaping hole big enough for them to stick an arrest warrant through.

TheOtherOne speaks. “Let’s get back to the neighbor. You said he locks you inside? Why would you let him do that?”

This is wrong, bad. I shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be talking to them. I asked them to leave; doesn’t that mean they have to? I take a sip of my water and look away from the man, make accidental eye contact with the woman. She leans forward and points, her finger one long arrow of invasion. “What happened to your nose, Ms. Madden?”

Oh, right. I had forgotten. “My nose?” I reach up and touch it. Feel the caked blood, the split across my bridge. I push on the joint and suddenly realize how much it throbs. The Vicodin for my headache must have taken off the sting. It’s been five or six hours. I close my eyes and try to remember how many pills I have. Calculate the time it would take for the doc to send me more.

“It looks broken.” She looks concerned, but she’s not. Her voice sounds giddy; she’d probably reach out and grip my nose herself if she could.

It looks broken. It feels broken. I push on the tip and get lightheaded. Pull my hand away before I faint. I stare at a strand of the woman’s hair that has escaped her ponytail. Focus on it until the spots clear from my vision.

“Ms. Madden?” the man prods.

“What?”

“What happened to your nose?”

Good question. I look away from the strand of hair and into the man’s eyes. “I’m not sure.”

“You forgot?”

All of the caution signs in my head are lining up for battle. Why am I talking to them? Why are they here? Why am I offering information when I’m not getting any? I stand up and watch for a reaction. A reach for a paper, for evidence to wave in my face, but they do nothing, just stay in place and watch me. “I’d like to be alone.”

I walk to the door and wait, the pair slow as they stand, step, then pass through the open door. I am almost free, about to shut it, when the woman’s hand settles on my arm, a firm and hard grip that tightens against the sleeve of my Marilyn Monroe sweatshirt. I turn, raising my brows at her in question.

“Why did you kill him?” the cop whispers, her eyes glued on me.

I don’t answer her. I hold her eye contact while I reach down and pull back on her index finger until she releases my arm with a pained wince. Then I drop my hand, step back, and shut the door, the slam of the steel against the frame loud and unfamiliar.

I didn’t not answer to be smart or mysterious. The main reason I didn’t answer was because I wasn’t sure how to answer. I wasn’t sure which death she was asking about. To be honest, I am starting to lose track.

CHAPTER 13

Present

“SHE’S GUILTY.” DETECTIVE Brenda Boles speaks quietly in the close confines of the elevator, the pair of detectives watching the panel warily as it wheezes down. “No doubt. Did you see her face before she let us in? The way she stared at my gun?”

“I saw it. But a lot of women are scared of guns. It’s got to be intimidating to let two armed strangers into your apartment.” Detective David Reuber chews his gum and leans against the side of the elevator.

“Oh, please.” She snorts. “Intimidated? That girl wasn’t intimidated. She was cornered. And guilty. I’d bet my pension on it.”

“We got nothing. A body who knew her. Nothing else. You know that.”

“Yet. We’ve got nothing yet. We will. And next time we’re on this damn elevator, it’ll be to arrest her. You know she’s good for this, David.”

“I don’t know…” He shakes his head. “She doesn’t fit any profile.”

“Skinny white chicks can’t be killers? You already forgotten Jodi Arias?”

He shrugs, gesturing her forward when the elevator doors open. “Maybe. I’m just saying. Don’t close the suspect list yet.”

“I’m not closing anything yet. But she’s topping it.”

“It’s your case. You bark, I follow.”

She laughs, and they exit the building, stepping into the afternoon sun, her question held until they are both settled into the squad car. “You find anything in the bathroom?”

“Oh, right.” He reaches in his pocket and pulls out his phone. Flips through to the camera roll and holds it out.

She snatches the phone, zooming in. “Meds?”

“They’re in her name. But the bottle’s three years old and full. A Dr. Derek Vanderbilt in Dallas prescribed them to her.”

Clozapine. She looks up at David. “Isn’t clozapine an antipsychotic?”

“If you want to tell the judge that, then yes. But between me and you, my sister takes it for anxiety. I think they use it for all sorts of things. One pill will mellow my sister out. Two will put her on her ass.”

“And the bottle was full?”

“Yep.” He buckles his belt. “You gonna call the doctor?”

She passes the phone back to him. “You better believe it. Let’s head in and do it now.” In the moment before pulling off, she glances up, to the sixth floor. There, in the dark window, Deanna Madden stares down at her.