The moment of the gunshot flashed in my memory. I could hear the roar and smell the odor and see Lucy’s crazed animal eyes all over again. I could feel the heat, too, the hot metal of the barrel searing against my hands, and I knew that the test would be positive for GSR.

The technician returned the disc to the container and sealed and labeled it, then repeated the procedure with my other hand. “Stand up against the wall, please,” the woman with the camera said.

Shakily I pushed back from the desk and stood where I was told. I tried not to blink as I was photographed again, full body this time, front and back.

“If you’d remove your skirt and blouse, please, and your shoes.”

“What?”

“If you would, please.”

Cooperate, I reminded myself. I had to seem cooperative.

They blocked the view from the door as I stripped down to my underwear, then they handed me a gray sweatshirt and sweatpants. These must have been their all-purpose, one-size-supposed-to-fit-all garments for anyone who couldn’t come up with their own change of clothes. Apparently they didn’t have any all-purpose shoes. Instead they gave me a pair of Tyvek booties like the ones they wore on their own feet. Then they bagged up my clothes and shoes and labeled them.

“Open your mouth, please.” A swab brushed the inside of my cheek and around my gums. Finally they rolled my fingerprints and packed up their kits and left the room.

I sat back down at the desk. The clothes were too big for me, and the hood trailed down my back like a monk’s cowl. The paper booties were meant to go over shoes, so they were too big as well, and rough against my bare feet.

I wasn’t shaking anymore. The adrenaline was finally wearing off, and fatigue was creeping in behind it. I’d been up since, what, four thirty this morning? I’d arrived in the office at six thirty, and now it was—what? I looked around for a clock. I didn’t even know if it was still today.

I felt a tremendous urge to put my head down on the desk and close my eyes, just for a minute. But I couldn’t. I had to stay alert. I had to be on guard. There were only two possible scenarios of what happened in the elevator. Either Lucy killed herself, or I killed Lucy. Now that I’d been photographed and swabbed and fingerprinted and processed in every way like a suspect, I couldn’t avoid the obvious anymore. No matter how sympathetic the detectives seemed to be, unless they were utterly convinced of suicide, they were going to default to murder.

I could see them out there in the lobby, conferring with the crime scene specialists. They kept glancing at me as they spoke. At last they returned to the room.

“Forensics won’t help,” I blurted as they cleared the doorway. “We both had our hands on the gun when it went off. So I probably do have residue on my hands, and the gun will have my prints and DNA, too.”