Nat’s hand threatened to fly to her throat, but she held it in her lap. She remembered taking the pendant off, putting it in the pocket of her dress before she met Gabe at the High Line. But there it was, in the image before her.

“Your social media accounts show you wearing this necklace.”

“I had one like it,” Nat said. “There was a break-in at my apartment. Last Saturday. They took the necklace.” She was lying to the police now. This wasn’t going to end well.

“Did you report it?”

“No. Gabe told me not to.”

“Why would he tell you not to?”

“I—I don’t know.”

“A gun was found wrapped in a woman’s T-shirt, in a nearby dumpster. Do you own a gun, Ms. Murphy?”

She couldn’t deny it. They were going to get a warrant to search her apartment. If the gun was still there, she’d be caught in a lie. “I got it for protection. I was being harassed by an old boyfriend. Cole Doberinsky. You should find him and talk to him.”

Correa jotted down Cole’s name.

“Gabe paid to have Cole beaten up,” Nat offered. “Cole hates him. He could have killed him.”

“We’ll talk to Mr. Doberinsky.”

“I think it was Cole who broke into my apartment. He probably took the necklace and the gun.”

“So you think ballistics will show that your gun killed Gabe Turnmill?”

“No. I—I don’t know.” She was getting confused; she should stop talking. “But if it does, then Cole probably took it.”

“Do you have a permit for the weapon? Did you register it with the state?”

“I got it secondhand. At a pawn shop.” The lies were piling up, threatening an avalanche that would bury her, but she wouldn’t bring Oleg into this. He had been kind to her, protective of her . . . she owed him.

“Where were you on Monday morning, around one thirty A.M.?”

“At home. I’d been at a club, but someone put something in my drink. I felt sick, so I went home. I’m not sure what time it was. Maybe around midnight.”

“Where was the club?”

“Hell’s Kitchen.”

“Can anyone corroborate that you were at home between one and five A.M.?”

“No. I didn’t see anyone.”

“A witness saw a woman matching your description on the Upper East Side, not far from the crime scene.”

It was impossible. Nat had gone home after the club. Unless she hadn’t.

There was a knock at the door, and Correa got up to answer it. Nat could see the fat detective but couldn’t hear his muttered words. Her interrogator nodded and returned to Natalie.

“Natalie Murphy. I’m arresting you for the murder of Gabriel Turnmill.”

“No.” It came out a sob.

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. . . .”

The detective was Mirandizing her, just like on TV. But Nat was not on a detective procedural. This was real. This was happening. But those TV shows had taught her a few things.