Branson gets out of the car and comes around, opening my door and then Bo’s. Bo is out of the car, hurrying toward the front door, before I even step out of the squad car. Branson extends his hand, helping me. So chivalrous.

“Say, Mrs. Harris, did you walk your dog the day Mary died or was he with Mary all day?”

“Gosh, I can’t remember. That day is such a blur, such a terrible memory.” I am not lying.

“Okay, well, think about it and let me know if you remember anything. You told us during your interview the dog was with Mary all day until security brought the poor fellow home.” Branson tips his hat and I follow him up the walkway to the station door.

Why is he so concerned about my late dog all of a sudden?

It’s probably nothing.

The cruiser carrying distraught David and about-to-be-behind-bars Betsy is empty at the curb. She’s probably being booked, or whatever it is they do with suspects these days. I feel nothing but proud of myself, for brilliant alliteration and much more. My plan worked flawlessly.

My future in LA is bright, and even brighter if Mr. Gray Hair wants to come along. I’ll try to write some more of my story for you, but I’m going to be so busy, it’s best we just end our chats here. Stay out of trouble. And always remember, the opposite of love is hate despite what they say, respect your mother’s wishes and never, ever cheat on your spouse.

The End.

42

11:00 p.m.

I said The End.

Oh, what now?

I’m finished.

Moving on.

“Let’s go inside.” Branson holds the door open and I step inside the police station. I don’t see any of my family.

“Let’s go to the conference room down the hall. Bo, have a seat. Someone will be here for you in a minute,” Branson says.

That’s right. I deserve a conference room. Bo is an accessory or something. He should sit out there in an uncomfortable guilty chair. Waiting.

As we walk down the dingy hall, I smile. Betsy is about to be put behind bars for a very long time. David will be destroyed by the loss of both Kylie and his only daughter.

Branson pushes on a metal door and in we go. It’s cold and a dirty yellow color in here. I would have preferred the waiting area where Bo sits.

“Why am I in here?” I ask.

“I need to tell you your husband has been rushed to the hospital. Potential heart attack. His mother rode with him in the squad. I’m sorry. They tell me he’s going to be fine.”