The image flashed again in my memory, of Lucy’s eyes in the seconds before her death. Eerily lit by the cone of light shining up from her phone, they were the crazed eyes of a caged animal. The smooth lacquered shell of her everyday armor was completely shattered.

I felt sick again with the memory, and I had to swallow back the bile and blink hard to clear away the image. I couldn’t afford to be sick now, or weak. I needed to keep my own armor up until this was all over.

At 2:35, finally, a knock sounded on the door. It was nothing more than two taps, a warning that the door was about to swing inward. Still I called out “Come in!” Stupidly, like I was a lady in her parlor receiving callers.

Detectives Riley and Cruz entered the room. They’d shed their overcoats. Riley wore a rumpled brown suit that sagged at the knees and elbows. Cruz wore a sleek gray suit that was a little too tight through the arms and chest and thighs. He had the body of a fitness buff and clearly wasn’t shy about showing it off.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Cruz said as they took their seats opposite me.

“That’s all right,” I said. “I’m here to help.”

Riley leaned back in his chair, while Cruz leaned forward and opened a folder. He stroked his goatee between his thumb and forefinger as he sorted through some papers. It was a habit I’d noticed earlier; I thought that the goatee must be new and unfamiliar to his touch. He took out some papers and slid them across the table. “Just a few formalities, if you don’t mind.” He slid a pen at me, too.

I picked up the forms and read them. One bore the full text of the Miranda warnings, followed by a waiver of my right to remain silent, a waiver of my right to counsel, and separate signature lines for each. I signed it. The second form was a consent to all the tests already done by the forensics team at Marketplace Tower.

“Just routine,” Cruz said.

A retroactive consent wasn’t routine. They were dotting every i and crossing every t, and I didn’t know whether they were being so careful because I was a lawyer or because I was a suspect. Regardless, I signed that one, too.

The third document was a consent for a search of my residence. I hesitated over this one. I thought about the state of the apartment when I’d last seen it. I thought about David and whether he’d be there and what he might do or say if he was. “What would you even be searching for?” I asked.

“It’s just routine,” Cruz said again.

“But what specifically?”

He shrugged. “Anything that might connect you to the deceased. Your phone. Your computer. Anything that might connect you to the gun. Ammo, a gun safe. This is all just routine elimination work.”