Detective Puhl sighed. “I’ll talk to him too. It’s not just about giving the money back. He’ll have the right to press charges too, though I have a feeling he won’t as a matter of discretion. All that to say, don’t be hard to get ahold of if I need to talk to you.”

It wasn’t the first time she’d told me that in the past week, and I nodded.

I began to walk, nowhere in particular, the sun bearing down on my face and warming my neck. At some point, I began to head east, toward Lake Michigan, and I walked until my breathing became labored and my back was drenched in sweat. It took me about twenty minutes to reach the pedestrian tunnel at Division Street that took me under Lake Shore Drive and out to the lakefront path.

In the middle of the warm August day, it was covered with cyclists, runners, and toned women with high ponytails jogging behind expensive strollers. I waited for a break in the action and stepped onto the paved path.

Then I started to run.

I was already hot, tired, and sweaty, and I was far from dressed for it—I was still wearing the pair of jeans and simple flat shoes that I’d slipped on that morning. But I ran anyway. I ran because I had to, because my body craved it, and because my mind needed it. I could feel the sweat building under my arms, above my upper lip, and behind my kneecaps, but I pushed on anyway. I ran as fast as I could, the hot wind blowing into my face, the dust stinging my eyes. I felt my blood pumping through my body, heard it rushing in my ears, and I pushed some more.

I caught a few glances from people around me: other runners in their spandex athletic gear and proper running shoes; people dressed like me who were walking at a more appropriate pace. But I ignored them and pressed ahead, feeling addicted to the miserable, itchy feeling that was taking over my body as my blood vessels expanded and contracted.

I was a good person.

It wasn’t something I’d ever questioned before, not really, not even during the past week. I’d seen what illness had done to my parents, and I’d wanted to avoid it by any means necessary.

But as I’d sat a room away from Emma and stared at a cop who seemed to very much put us in the same category, I couldn’t help but wonder:

Did Emma Bentley think that she was a good person too?

It was a question that had bothered me from the moment I’d sat down, through the interrogation and my final conversation with Detective Puhl. If Emma came out of this thinking she was, deep down, a good person, she may be a bit more delusional than me.