He watched me closely and didn’t answer, and that told me what the answer was.

“Oh, God.” I dropped my face into my hands. “I should’ve tried—I don’t know—could I have saved her?” My voice was strained and muffled against my palms. I looked up again. “It was dark,” I said. “I couldn’t see where she was hurt. Or even if she was hurt. I don’t know what I could have done. What should I have done?”

“What happened?” he said again.

I took a breath to steady myself. “She had a panic attack,” I said. “I guess that’s what you’d call it. When the elevator stalled and the lights went out. She was making these sounds—I don’t know—like a dog panting. I tried to get her to calm down. I told her that building security had to know what happened. We’d be out in no time. But it was like she didn’t hear me. The intercom wasn’t working, and it didn’t seem like the alarm button worked either, so I called 911. I told her help was on the way. But she didn’t respond. She was definitely hyperventilating by then. I was afraid she’d pass out. So I turned the phone light on to check on her. That’s when I saw the gun in her hand.”

I closed my eyes and took another deep breath. “I couldn’t believe she had a gun. I didn’t know what she meant to do with it. Shoot her way out? But then she was turning it, pointing it under her chin, and I realized she meant to shoot herself. I shouted ‘No!’ and I grabbed for the gun. But she fought me. She fought me so hard. And then—and then—” I stopped and took another swallow of water from the paper cup, but it tasted of vomit, and I hurried to spit it out.

“She killed herself, you’re saying.”

I squinted at him. Did I not make that clear? “Yes!”

He took out a notepad. “Do you know her name?”

“Yes. She’s Lucy Carter-Jones.”

“Lucy Jones,” he said, jotting.

“No, Carter-Jones. With a hyphen. It’s one of those double-barreled British names, you know?”

He looked up, blank-faced. “Friend of yours?”

“She’s the HR director of our company.”

“What company’s that?”

“CDMI.” When he looked blank again, I explained: “Claudine de Martineau International. The fashion giant? We own most of the major labels around the world. Our design headquarters are in the city, but our administrative headquarters are here.” I pointed upward. CDMI occupied the top five floors of the building.

“What’s your name?”

“Shay Lambert. I work in the Law Department.”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re a lawyer?”

I nodded.

The other cop returned to the room. “CID’s been alerted.”

His partner pointed at me. “She’s a lawyer,” he said.

The two men exchanged a look, and as one gave a nod, the other pulled a laminated card from his pocket and began to read: “You have the right to remain—”

“Wait.” My eyes darted between the two men. “You don’t think—? No—she killed herself!”