She uncrossed her legs and crossed them again, adjusting herself on her chair and checking the small gold wristwatch she kept on the side table.

“Grab your cigarettes,” she ordered.

“What?”

“You heard me.” She pointed at my bag.

I opened it, took out my pack, and held it in my hand.

“Can I have one?” she asked, extending her hand.

“S-sure?” I said, extending my arm to her to remove one of the five cigarettes left in the pack.

She placed it in between her lips and looked at me, raising a single brow. I quickly reached in my front pocket for my lighter and watched as the flame burned the rough paper as she inhaled.

“That night,” she began, resting her elbow on her knee and letting the smoke engulf the room in fog. “How long did you swim for?”

“I dunno.” I shrugged.

“Thomas, I read the police report.”

“Then, you know.”

She simply looked at me and took a long drag, letting the smoke out through her nostrils and moving her thumb around the bottom of the filter as she waited for a better answer.

“It says I was in the water for two hours,” I told her.

“And how long did you actually remain inside the lake?”

“Five.”

“You were in shock when they found you, correct?”

“Uh-huh.” I nodded.

“Did they ask you what had happened?”

“They’d spoken to Emma and Summer. They knew.”

She took another drag and stared.

“Yes. They asked,” I said, squeezing the pack of Marlboro’s in my hand.

I’d never wanted a cigarette so bad in my life, but I kept feeling as though that was what she was waiting for (aside from me breaking down). That moment in which I would cave and get so uncomfortable by one of her questions that I couldn’t help but smoke. So, naturally, I fought the urge with all my might.

“Did you cry?” She tilted her head a bit.

“What?”

“Did you cry? When you recounted what had happened.”

“Um…I—I dunno.” I broke eye contact for the first time as I let my eyes wander, trying to remember. “No, I don’t think so,” I eventually said as I resumed staring back at her.

“What about when they found his body?”

“No.”

“At the funeral?”

I shook my head.

“When you used the razor?”

“You know I didn’t.” I narrowed my eyes.

“Why didn’t you?”

I shrugged.

“Didn’t you find it sad?”

I didn’t answer.

“When did you cry?” she asked, casually flicking ash into the crystal ashtray on the coffee table between us. “For the last time, not counting the hospital?”

“I don’t know,” I lied.