The officers surveyed the apartment, taking in the filth, the chaos, the smell.

“Jesus Christ,” the fat guy muttered.

The female detective snapped, “Get dressed.” Then she turned to a uniformed officer, said something about a warrant and evidence, but Nat didn’t take it in. She was scrambling through the mess for some clothes, tears streaming down her cheeks. This couldn’t be real. Gabe couldn’t be dead. She couldn’t have anything to do with it. It didn’t make sense, none of it did. She needed to remember.

The men left the room, allowing Nat to dress. The female cop tossed her a tea towel, and Nat dried the pee off her legs, her humiliation extreme. She pulled on a bra, a pair of sweats, and a T-shirt. The clothes smelled funky, the pants had food on them, pizza sauce by the look of it, but it didn’t matter. As Nat dressed, the woman with the dark eyes introduced herself as Detective Correa. Her tone had softened with her colleagues out in the hall.

“I know you’re upset, and I know this is scary,” she said, “but we’ll go to the station and have a little chat. I’m sure we can get this all sorted out.”

Nat nodded tearfully, but Gabe was dead. How could they sort that out?

The Tenth Precinct was just a couple of blocks from Nat’s apartment. She had strolled by the Italian Renaissance–inspired building so many times, the officers congregating outside its doors nodding hello, wishing her a good night. She’d found them intimidating, attractive, fascinating—big-city cops like in all the TV shows. Despite the proximity, she was put in the back of a squad car. It would have been humiliating to march her through the streets like a criminal. Because she was innocent. She had to be.

Inside the Chelsea station, it was bright and bustling, full of officers in uniform and not. There were other people, too. . . . Attorneys? Or suspects? Or loved ones of the accused? Nat didn’t know. How could she know? She’d never been inside a police station in her life, had certainly never been taken in for questioning. But here she was, Detective Correa’s proprietary hand on Nat’s upper arm, steering her through the desks, toward a destination at the back.

It was almost a relief when the woman led Nat into an airless room and closed the door on the cacophony outside. “Have a seat,” she said, indicating a table with a notepad and pen, a paper cup of water. Nat chose the chair against the wall, facing the door. She guzzled the water, soothing her scorched throat but making her stomach churn. When had she last eaten? What day was it? She noticed the one-way glass embedded on the wall as she sat and knew she was being watched, likely recorded. But that was okay because she had nothing to hide. Did she?

“What happened to Gabe?” she blurted, tears filling her eyes. “Is he really . . . dead?”