I shivered in my seat as the vent poured cold air over my bare arms. The air-conditioning was set too low for Western Pennsylvania balmy May weather as it blasted through the interview room. That’s what Detective Rossi called it, as if I was interviewing for a job, but I knew it for what it was: an interrogation room. The room where they would pull apart my statement, searching for holes and inconsistencies and any trace of a lie.

I hugged my arms, rubbing my hands up and down until the goose bumps settled back into my skin. The lukewarm black coffee—they were out of creamer and sugar, he said, as he placed the Styrofoam cup in front of me—did little to warm me. Beside me sat Aria, zombified with grief, and Detective Rossi sat opposite us holding a pen and pad of paper. I asked if I needed an attorney, to which he replied, “Not if you don’t have anything to hide.”

I did, of course, but I couldn’t let him know that. So I answered his questions one by one, crying real tears between the script. I wasn’t a coldhearted bitch who didn’t love her husband, after all. Owen had been my world. But when your world begins to turn dark and dangerous, you have to ask yourself if that’s really where you want to live. And I knew the only way out was until death do us part . . . his death, unfortunately. It had to be done, no matter how much I loved him or how much the act blackened my soul.

This is what I told myself to feel better. To justify what I had done. So far it wasn’t working.

The detective glanced at his notepad, then looked up at my daughter. “Aria, you say you were home all evening last night and didn’t hear anything or see anything?”

I hated that my innocent daughter had been dragged into this.

She dabbed her eyes with a tissue the detective had handed her. “I was in my room most of the night, since Dad was drinking. A lot. I could hear him watching television and fuming about Mom being out, but that’s all I heard. I had earbuds in most of the night, listening to music. The first thing I heard this morning was Mom screaming and crying that she found Dad with his throat . . .” She didn’t finish. She didn’t have to.

Detective Rossi vigorously chewed his gum, then he shifted to me. I smelled the mint on his breath. “One more time, Mrs. Fischer, please explain for me exactly what happened, starting with last night. Every detail you can think of, big or small.”