He has neither a shopping cart nor a basket.

“You’re still here,” I say.

“I am.”

“The Milwaukee PD must have quite a budget.”

“I’m not staying in luxury accommodations. I’m leaving later today.”

I’m holding a jar of organic tomato sauce, which suddenly feels more like a weapon in my hand than an item to shelve.

“What do you want, Detective?”

He shifts his footing, placing his right foot back just enough to suggest a defensive stance. Subtle, but I notice.

“I’d like to talk to you one more time before I leave. A bit more formally, down at the Bury police station.”

My gut tightens.

“Just to clear up a few little things?” I ask, recalling Pearson’s initial approach to me on Thursday.

“Yes, exactly.”

“I recall telling you if you wanted to speak to me again, you had to go through my lawyer.”

“Well, I don’t know who your lawyer is any more than I know who your dentist is,” he says. “But if you feel you really need a lawyer, I suggest you give them a call. Have them meet us down at the station.”

I lower the jar in my hand, squeezing it, the muscles in my forearm tightening.

“I’m in the middle of a shift right now,” I say.

“I’m sure your boss will understand.”

“I’m not sure that’s true,” I say. Pearson’s face doesn’t wear the aw shucks humility of a few days ago. He looks like a man unwilling to take no for an answer. “Am I under arrest?”

I’ve imagined having to ask that question before. More than once. But it’s terrifying to do it, to speak those words to an actual detective.

“No, Rose, you’re not. You don’t have to go with me. And I suspect you know I’ll tell you it’s in your best interest to do as I ask. You probably think that’s just a ploy to get you to talk, and sometimes it is, no doubt. But the god’s honest truth is, if you don’t have anything to worry about, then you will be helping yourself if you come in for an interview.”

I look down the aisle past Pearson and spot my shift manager, John Ridley, staring at us. John’s the type of boss who’d get annoyed if he thinks I’m having a personal conversation at work. He’s in his fifties, unmarried, and clings to his ounces of low-grade power. I can only imagine John’s reaction if he knew what Pearson and I are talking about.

I shift my gaze back to Pearson. “You’re far from convinced of my innocence. Otherwise you wouldn’t have come all the way out here in the first place. I have nothing to hide concerning my husband, but I have nothing to gain by talking to you. I need to get back to work.”

“Did you know your life-insurance premium payments weren’t up to date?” he asks. “Did you handle the bills, or did your husband?”

“I’m not answering that.”

“I see,” Pearson says, pushing his hands in his pockets. “Well, that’s a shame, Rose, I’ll tell you. I was really hoping we could get a chance to clear the air, but I guess I’ll have to do a little more digging. I would’ve thought you’d have wanted to put all this behind you, move on with your grieving process. But it’s your call, and I have to respect that.”