Their emotional moment was interrupted by a male voice. “Excuse me?”

Natalie and her parents turned toward the speaker. He was slim, boyishly handsome, holding a small recording device toward Nat’s face. “Anything you’d like to say about your involvement in Gabe Turnmill’s murder?”

Gabe had been a powerful attorney, New York society, a one-percenter. And he had been a sugar daddy. His murder was a scandal.

“No comment,” Nat’s dad snapped. The small family hurried from the courthouse.

* * *

The conditions of Natalie’s bail included surrendering her passport, wearing a monitored ankle bracelet to ensure she did not leave the court’s jurisdiction or approach Gabe’s family, and house arrest between the hours of 8:00 P.M. and 8:00 A.M. Her mom would stay with her in the studio apartment; her dad was renting a cheap—at least by New York standards—hotel room in Midtown. When a taxi dropped them off in Chelsea, Nat unlocked the front door (her keys had been returned to her, but her phone was now evidence) and ushered her mom into the building.

“For God’s sake,” Allana muttered, when they entered the small suite, “did the police really need to tear the place apart?”

Nat didn’t admit that the state of her apartment had more to do with her own slovenly habits than the police’s search for evidence. The vomit and blood were still on the floor, dried to a putrid crust. The air was fetid and close, but still an improvement from the atmosphere in the basement cell Nat had so recently occupied.

Allana opened the window and let the night filter into the studio. Even though it was after 11:00 P.M., her mom set about cleaning the apartment, while Nat went to shower. She wasn’t sure when she had last slept (shock and exhaustion had muddled her thoughts, messed with her perception of time), but she needed to rinse away the filth and stink of the holding cells first. The hot water softened the scabs on her knees and hands, allowing blood to ooze from the wounds. She watched it run down her shins and swirl down the drain. And then, a flash of remembrance.

She saw Gabe’s face, pale and terrified. He was saying something inaudible, pleading for his life probably. And then a bang, a gunshot, rang through her head, rattled her brain. She staggered in the shower, gripping the edge of the tub before she collapsed. Her memory was returning, and it was horrifying. She didn’t want to remember murdering the man she’d loved.

When she got out of the shower, she found her mom putting clean sheets on the bed. She turned as Nat entered in her towel. “Are you okay? You’re pale and you’re shaking.”

She couldn’t tell her mom the image that had revisited her. “I’m just tired.”

“You need to sleep. Do you want to eat something first?”

Nat shook her head, suddenly overcome by exhaustion. Tears brimmed in her eyes, and a ragged sob shuddered through her chest. Her mom took control, finding a nightie in the overstuffed dresser drawers and pulling it over Nat’s head. She helped her daughter climb into the fresh sheets, still smelling of lavender-scented laundry soap despite weeks in the closet. Allana kissed Nat’s cheeks, like she had done when Nat was a little girl.