Correa sat across from her, gave her a maternal smile. “Let’s start at the beginning, shall we?” She picked up the pen, slid the notepad closer to her. “Tell me about your relationship with Mr. Turnmill.”

“We’re friends.”

“How did you meet?”

Nat’s heart rabbited in her throat. She didn’t want to admit the origins of their relationship. It sounded debauched and sleazy, possibly even illegal. The detective sensed her hesitation.

“I know this is rough, Natalie, but we want the same thing here. We want to find out what happened to Gabe. It’ll really help us if you’re honest.”

It was an interrogation tactic, possibly even a trap. But Nat didn’t know how to protect herself because she didn’t know what she had done. Gabe was dead; she needed to know how, and why. And she wanted to talk to this strong woman with the soft eyes, wanted Detective Correa to help her. She swallowed.

“I met him through a website.”

“What’s the name of the website?”

Nat told her. The detective jotted it down. “Does this site match up wealthy men with girls who want to make some extra money?”

“Yes.”

“So is that the relationship you had with Gabriel Turnmill? Sugar daddy and sugar baby?” She was matter-of-fact, no judgment.

“At first,” Nat said. “But then we fell in love.”

Correa kept writing, didn’t look up. “Did you know he was married?”

“No,” Nat said, tears slipping from her eyes. “I found out later.”

“That must have made you angry.”

Nat was not that naive, not that stupid. “It hurt me,” she retorted.

The detective met her eyes, sizing her up. Then she smiled. “Did you know he had a daughter?”

“Yes.”

“And did you get to know his daughter?”

It was the intonation of the question that revealed the detective’s hand. Correa knew everything. The police had talked to Violet and Celeste. They knew Nat had visited the Sagaponack home, knew she had befriended Violet. They had found Gabe’s phone and read the angry missives Nat had sent him, listened to the voice messages where she’d threatened to kill him. They weren’t questioning her as a witness; she was a suspect. She was in big trouble.

“I think I need a lawyer.”

“Sure,” the detective said casually. “One of my colleagues will call a public defender for you.” She nodded toward the one-way glass. “I’d like to keep chatting, if you’re up for it.”

A lawyer would advise Nat to shut up. She knew this from all the Shonda Rhimes shows she’d watched with her mother. But she had to know.

“What happened to Gabe?”

“He was found dead at the bottom of a stairwell on East Eighty-Eighth, early in the morning of May twentieth.” The detective’s voice was calm, her eyes appraising Nat’s every reaction. “He’d been shot once, in the face.”

A horrified sob found its way through Nat’s clenched lips.

“There was a necklace found on the stairs near the victim’s body,” Correa said, opening a manila file folder. She slid a photograph toward Nat. “Do you recognize it.”