* * *

Cops swarm through the house as I sit in a kitchen chair. My sister, Corrine, is on her way. Someone brought me my robe from upstairs and helped me into it. It was that young officer, I think. The first one who arrived and escorted me back to the house. It was nice of her, but I’m still numb, my feet, my whole body.

The house is a wreck. I peek up and look out into the living room. Beer bottles and wineglasses litter every end table, even the fireplace mantel. Leftover dips and finger foods are spread across the counter, congealing, a disgusting mess. But who’d have thought anyone would be here before I’d had time to clear it all away? Who’d have thought my husband would be lying dead in his office the morning after his party? I cry into my fleecy sleeve. Who would do this to Jay? My life is collapsing around me, and I feel like I’ve fallen into a dark pit.

I hear Corrine’s low, Lauren Bacall–like voice as she comes through the front door. She’s talking to one of the cops. Then she’s beside me, leaning over my shoulder, her perfume filling my nostrils. But it doesn’t displace the smell of blood.

“What the hell happened, Molly?” She pulls me to standing and squeezes me in her arms.

I bury my face in her woolly coat.

“Ma’am, we need to ask you a few questions,” a man’s voice emanates from behind her.

Corrine turns to the cop and demands, “What’s happened here?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out. Let’s sit, okay?”

Somehow Corrine and I are sitting side by side while the husky, uniformed officer takes the chair across from us.

“I’m Sergeant Simmons,” he says, and lays a notepad on the table. “Mrs. Bradley?”

I clear my throat, swipe a tissue under my nose. “Yes?”

“I need you to tell me what happened.”

I try to breathe through my tears, try to pull a breath down into my chest. “Okay,” I squeak, and think back to when I woke up, try to put disjointed pieces together. “I got up this morning, and my husband wasn’t there, in bed. He’s an early riser . . . There wasn’t any coffee.” I start to cry again, and the cop leans back in his chair.

Corrine drums the table with her fingers. “Is this necessary right now? She’s distraught.”

“I’m sorry, but we’ve got a dead man . . . You are?”

“Corrine Alworth. Her sister.”

He nods. “Okay. Mrs. Bradley, so you woke up this morning, what time?”

I’m at a loss. My head is throbbing. I have no idea, so I look at the time on the microwave and try to figure it out. “Uh.” It’s ten-fifteen now. “Nine o’clock, maybe a little after.”

“But you’re not sure?”

“ No.”

He glances around the room, at the mess. “Had a party last night?”

“My husband’s birthday.” I duck my head, lean against Corrine. I want to disappear.