I wanted desperately to search for James, who’d been rushed down the long corridor leading to the critical care unit. But instinct told me this would not be wise; the unshaven officer sitting in front of me would slap handcuffs on me before I even made it to the hallway. Leaving was not an option.

Suddenly, I had a lot of explaining to do.

I held my breath, praying the officer didn’t look farther down the page. If he did, how could I begin to tell him the truth? Where would I even start? Would I begin with my unfaithful husband arriving in London unplanned, or my breaking-and-entering into a serial killer’s apothecary shop, or my reason for having eucalyptus oil in my toiletry bag at all? Every scenario stood against me; every explanation seemed either too implausible or too coincidental.

I feared my version of events would do more harm than good; I was emotionally wrecked and unable to form a clear thought, much less a coherent sentence. But given James’s condition only a short while ago, time was of the essence. I needed to find a way out of this, and quick.

As the second officer excused himself out of the room for a call, the first cleared his throat and addressed me. “Ms. Parcewell, do you care to explain what’s in this notebook?”

I forced myself to focus. “These notes are related to a historical research project,” I insisted. “Nothing more.”

“A research project?” He didn’t hide the dubious expression on his face as he leaned back in his chair and spread his legs apart. I stifled the sudden urge to vomit.

“About an unsolved mystery, yes.” At least that much was true. It dawned on me that maybe the whole truth wasn’t necessary—maybe the partial truth was enough to get me out of this predicament. “I’m a history major. I’ve been twice to the British Library, investigating an apothecary who killed people a couple hundred years ago. The notebook contains my research notes about her poisons, that’s all.”

“Hmm,” he mused aloud, crossing one leg over the other. “Seems a fitting story.”

This was precisely my concern. I stared at him, dumbfounded, resisting the desperate urge to throw up my hands and say, Okay, asshole, come with me and I’ll show you a few things. He pulled a notebook and pencil from his pocket and began to scribble down words, some of which he underlined with rough, chalky strokes. “And you began this research when?” he asked, not looking at me.

“Just a couple of days ago.”

“And you’re visiting from where?”

“The States, Ohio.”

“Have you ever faced criminal charges?”

I spread out my hands in disbelief. “No, never. Nothing.” The back of my neck began to itch. Not yet, anyway.