“The good news is you’re getting out of here,” she announces brightly. “The bad news is you can’t go home. Not yet.”

She hands me the shopping bag, which contains my personal effects, meager as they are, with the exception of my purse. Ms. Savalo explains that my purse, a simple black Coach bag, was specifically mentioned in the search warrant that was issued after I was taken into custody, and will be retained for “further examination,” whatever that means.

“What do they hope to find?” I ask, bewildered. “A letter of confession?”

“They didn’t say. They never do. The important thing is, the county prosecutor’s office has decided not to file charges ‘at this time.’”

I let that sink in. “Meaning they might still arrest me?”

Ms. Savalo shrugs. “Can’t know for sure. My instincts tell me there’s still a strong possibility an indictment will occur, assuming they can develop the evidence, link it together.”

She goes on to explain that as far as the prosecutor is concerned, there are problems with the police theory of the crime. Not the least of which is how a woman of my size and strength managed to hoist the body of a 248-pound man into the freezer. Plus, anything the deputies discovered upon entering the house might come under “fruit of a poisoned tree”—Ms. Savalo’s phrase—because they entered and searched without a warrant.

“Real sticky problem for them is what to do about the phone call,” she explains, plopping down on the bunk.

At first I assume she’s referring to my call to Jake Gavner, when I lied under duress and convinced him my son was safe and sound at home. But no, it seems there was another phone call, one I had nothing to do with.

“Think about it, Mrs. Bickford. What were the police doing knocking on your door? Had to be something that alerted them to you. That something was an anonymous call to the 911 line, which means they have it on tape. So far they haven’t let me listen to the call—they will eventually—but from what I was given to understand by the prosecutor’s office, the caller implicated you in the disappearance of Sheriff Corso. Why Deputy Sheriff Crebbin didn’t apply for a search warrant at that point, I don’t know. Certainly on the basis of the call, one would have been granted. But what happened is, as soon as they got the call they raced over to your place and knocked on the door. Guess maybe he thought Corso might still be alive.”

“They were close friends,” I tell her, feeling ill, despite the good news of my impending release. “Terry must have been frantic to find him.”

“Whatever,” says Ms. Savalo, somewhat cavalierly. “The point is, who made the call? Leaves the prosecutors with an unknown quantity, and they hate that.”

“Must have been the man in the mask,” I suggest. “He called me just before they knocked on the door, and made sure to mention the basement.”

Ms. Savalo shrugs. “All this will be sorted out eventually. We have more to discuss, but first I’d like to get you situated. Your home is still a crime scene, so I took the liberty of booking you a motel room for a few days. Nothing fancy, I’m afraid. Just four walls, a shower and a bed.”

“Anything, I don’t care.” I’m in desperate need of a hot shower, having been stuck in the same clothes I had on when Terry Crebbin and his deputies hustled me down to the station. Clothes I’d already been passed out in for who knows how many hours.

Ms. Savalo pauses, studies me. “There’s a reason it’s nothing fancy. I’m not really worried about spending your money at this point, Mrs. Bickford. But we’ve got a situation outside the station and we have to come to an agreement on how to handle it.”

“Situation?”

“A media situation. They’ve obviously gotten wind that you’re about to be released. I counted five TV-news vans. Cable and local affiliates. This is your chance, Mrs. Bickford, if you want to take it.”

I’m confused not only by what Ms. Savalo is saying, but by her whole attitude, which has shifted. As if she’s in the process of judging me, much to her regret, and expecting the worst.

“What are you talking about? What chance?”

“Your fifteen minutes of fame. You can hold a press conference as soon as you walk out that door. Proclaim your innocence on camera, and there’s a very good chance the footage will be carried by Fox News and CNN, as well as every local station in the tristate area.”

I bury my face in my hands. Whatever muted euphoria I’d been experiencing at the idea of getting out has just been extinguished by the prospect of a media swarm. Strangely enough, I hadn’t even considered the possibility. Too many other things to obsess on. But the very idea of appearing on TV at a time like this makes my skin crawl. Never really understood why so many victims of crime, or those accused of it, are so eager to exploit face-time on TV. Hi, your infant daughter just drowned in your swimming pool, would you care to say a few words? Sure thing, but let me do my hair first, and while I’m at it, hire a media consultant.

Ugh. Revolting.

A wave of nausea doubles me up in stomach cramps. Gorge rising as I imagine microphones being shoved in my face by leering reporters. Hey, Killer Mom! What have you got to say for yourself!

“You’ve got to get me out of here,” I tell her, gasping back the bile in my throat. “Is there a back way?”

“You don’t want to speak to the media? Appear on TV? Tell your story?”

“Please help me,” I say, involuntary tears rolling down my face. “I’m begging you. Can’t you make them go away? Please?”

All of a sudden Ms. Savalo’s tight smile relaxes and turns warm. She reaches out, patting my arm, reassuring me. “Of course there’s a back way out. There’s always a back way out, but I had to know your intentions.”

“I don’t understand,” I tell her. “What’s going on? Why are you acting like this?”

She sighs and stands up from the bunk. “Come on, Mrs. Bickford, our chariot awaits.” Leading me from the holding cell, she explains: “There are two kinds of defense attorneys. Those who want to bring it to the cameras and those who don’t. I never bring it to the cameras if I can help it. My opinion, it’s almost always the first sign of a weak defense, or a guilty client. That creep who chopped up his wife and his unborn child in California? His lawyers kept that front and center on the cable talk shows for months. Not because they were convinced their client was innocent, but because they were afraid he was guilty. Their only strategy was to try and taint a jury. Sow some doubt, muddy the waters. I don’t work like that. Just a personal preference, really. I’m much more comfortable working behind the scenes. Using my contacts, making my best case directly to the cops and the prosecutors without filtering it through Fox News.”

We come to a hallway in the rear of the station. There’s no sign of Terry Crebbin or any of his men, but Deputy Katz is waiting there in full uniform, a heavy, holstered revolver on her slender hip. She won’t meet my eyes, but she’s willing enough to look at my lawyer. Indeed, I get the impression they know and respect each other.

“We all set, Rita?” Ms. Savalo asks.

Deputy Katz nods, hands her a set of car keys.

“Thanks, Rita, I owe you one.”

The rear exit to which we’ve been guided connects directly to the employee parking facility. Police cruisers, civilian cars, a tow truck. And the beautiful thing, no access to civilians, including the media.

“Deputy Katz loaned you her car?” I ask, astonished, as we hurriedly head for a five-year-old Honda Civic purposefully positioned not far from the exit door.

“Offered her five hundred bucks. She wouldn’t take it.”

We get into the car and I hunker down instinctively, expecting to be assaulted by boomed microphones at any moment.

“I don’t understand,” I say. “Is she a friend of yours?”

Ms. Savalo shakes her head as she fires up the engine. “Nope. Never met her before. I just explained the situation and asked for her help. She complied. Nice kid.”