The next morning, I receive a text from Gabriel asking me to meet him at the Commissioner’s office. I assume that, now that we’ve briefed McKenney, Gabriel wants his boss to be up to date.

I arrive at One PP and go directly to meet up with Gabriel. His surly assistant tells me that he’s already gone to the meeting, so I head up to Calhoun Johnson’s office.

When I enter his office, Commissioner Johnson is sitting behind the desk and his number two, a guy I haven’t met before but who I remember seeing at Lauren’s funeral, is in one of the guest chairs. Off to one corner are the two other cops who were present at the meeting when we were told about Lauren’s murder—the lanky African American who is Gabriel’s boss and the short, mustachioed guy who is the Chief of D’s.

I can’t remember either of their names, and neither introduces himself to me. Drake McKenney stands off to the side, and Gabriel is leaning up against the wall. I smile at my partner, but he doesn’t return the gesture.

It’s when I see the four uniformed officers—three men, one woman—in another corner, that I realize what this meeting is actually about. There’s only one reason uniform cops would be here.

“I’m going to get right to the point, Dana,” McKenney says. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Lauren Wright.”

This must be the cue for the uniform cops. The four of them move in tandem, as if all 140 pounds of me might overpower them with any less manpower. My fight-or-flight response kicks into overdrive, but I tell myself to stay calm. Everything unfolds before me in what feels like slow motion.

One of the cops pulls a set of handcuffs from his belt and in a stern voice says, “Put your hands behind your back.”

I’m being arrested for murdering Lauren Wright. The words actually play again in my head, this time in my voice, repeating what McKenney said a moment before.

I do as directed and put my arms behind me, wrists together. One of the other cops clips the cuffs around my left hand and then my right. The handcuffs are much colder than I’d assumed they would be, and they dig uncomfortably into my wrists. If I had a free hand, I’d rub the spot where the contact is most painful, but of course I can’t.

The sole woman in the group, a Latina with long, dark hair, begins speaking. “Dana Goodwin, you have been arrested for the murder of Lauren Wright. You have the right to remain silent . . .”