It feels surreal. I know that vile bastard is dead. I know he’ll never hurt me or my mom, or any other woman again, but even after the paramedics wheeled his body out of here, even after the medical examiner made the pronouncement, it doesn’t feel as final as I thought it would. Maybe because I wasn’t there. I wasn’t in that room when he took his last breath. I didn’t get to see the shock and fear rise in his eyes as the poison took over, didn’t hear his last cry for help. Didn’t get to see him struggle in those last few moments the way he deserved to struggle. Hear him scream. Hear him choke on his own breath. I almost feel robbed.

But it’s done. It’s over.

Every channel is reporting the shocking news. They’ve already turned him into a saint and it’s nauseating.

Simon Van Doren dead at fifty-five, found unconscious in his home by his fiancée at 9:35 p.m.

TMZ was the first to break the story. Of course. Because they don’t care about anything except ratings. I saw it on Twitter before that bitch even called me. Izzy. Saying she found him on the floor of his office, unresponsive. Confirming what I already knew.

I did my absolute best to affect genuine surprise—tears and all. I know the cops are going to review the phone records, use the first call she made for evidence once they get her side of the story. They always do.

I played my part. I played it well.

I feel a headache coming on. A real banger, the kind of pounding that makes you feel like your head is going to implode.

I’ve been crying for so long, I’m starting to believe the tears myself.

There are two cops staring at me, standing only a few feet away, hushed suspicion in their every move. The taller one is a black woman, clearly sharper and more fit than her partner. Officer Glover. She’s probably in her thirties but looks older, like life has thrown her against the wall a few too many times.

The man at her side, Detective Bierman, says he’s the lead in this case. Close-cropped silver hair sits over clear blue eyes and a broad nose. Just by the way he moves, with an assumed authority, I can tell he’s more experienced, but right away something tells me he’s not the one I need to be worried about. A badge peeks out from his jacket whenever he gestures for Glover to take a note that she seems to be already jotting down every single time.

I have to swallow to form a word. “I bought him that bottle of scotch.” My voice is rough, as if I’ve been screaming. I shake my head slowly. “It was a gift for entering remission.”