“Shhh. Calm down.” I didn’t want Lupe to feel my uncertainty. I squeezed her hand and knelt beside her on the floor next to my chair where she sat curled up. I don’t know how long we stayed like that, me whispering in her ear that there was nothing to worry about.

The phone rang. It must have rung a few times before I really heard it.

“Whitney Logan?” a man’s voice barked at me.

“Yeah.” Who was it? Some new business? It was a bad time for new business. Like Lupe, I was tired. I let go of her hand and pushed myself to my feet.

“Officer Hale of the LAPD. Got a few questions we’d like to ask you.”

Lupe got up from the desk and moved away toward the window. She cracked her knuckles as she looked out over Hollywood Boulevard again.

“Questions about what?” I asked, stalling.

“About a body we found.”

The phone felt heavy, unfamiliar in my hand. I felt like I had never used one before. Please, God, let me think fast enough, I prayed. “What body? Why are you calling me?”

Turning toward me with horror on her face, Lupe grabbed my arm, nearly pulling me off balance. She must have thought the call was about Joey. I shook my head at her, and she let go of me but didn’t move away.

“We found your card among other things in the purse she had with her.”

“Who is it?” I already knew, and my stomach turned over. I had killed Monica Fullbright.

“That’s what we want you to tell us. Look, unless you’re a psychic instead of a lawyer, you’re going to have to come down here to I.D. this lady and we can ask you some questions.”

“Doesn’t she have any I.D. in her purse?” I countered, nervously rearranging some papers in front of me.

“Driver’s license says she’s Monica Fullbright.”

I couldn’t believe that was her real name. “If you got her name, what do you want me for’?”

“Let’s just say we found her under some suspicious circumstances and we need you to give us some background.”

Turning my back to Lupe so she couldn’t see how scared I was, I leaned against the desk to steady myself. Monica Fulbright must have died when she jumped out of my car. Or when I pushed her! I could imagine her with branch marks cutting her face, road dirt on her chest.

“She’s a divorce client of mine. I don’t think there’s much else I can tell you.” Giving false information to a police officer. A misdemeanor? Or was I sliding over to felony jeopardy? It was too late to worry about that. “What happened to her?” I asked, although I didn’t think he’d tell me.

“Strangled. Silk scarf around the throat.”