They kept tossing the modifier around as if I didn’t already know they didn’t believe me. The woman’s name was Detective Claire Puhl, like swimming pool, and she could barely hide the mistrust in her big, bored, brown eyes. We were in the back of the 18th District Police Department in downtown Chicago, in a room with flickering fluorescent lights, folding metal chairs, and a very noticeable camera up high in the far-right corner of the room. The other cop with us was a skinny, awkward man who’d introduced himself only as Detective Greg. I’d wanted to ask him if Greg was his last name or his first, but the question felt too cheeky under the circumstances.

Sit up, Paula.

Make eye contact.

Now, breathe.

The questions were coming fast, and I was trying to answer them as calmly as possible. I wasn’t doing well. The alcohol, of course, didn’t help. I could still smell it on my clothes and taste it on my tongue, which meant they could probably smell it too. I’d apologized for it right off the bat, since it seemed that might stop them from holding it against me.

“Thanks for seeing me,” I’d said when we first sat down. “I hope you’ll forgive me. After the break-in, I had a couple glasses of wine to fall asleep, and when I woke up, I came straight here, so I’ll admit, I’m a little bit…”

Detective Puhl had held up a hand. I’d quickly learn that she was the type of person to stop you midsentence if she didn’t feel you were saying something of value. She’d shared a look with Detective Greg and then leaned forward.

“What, exactly, can we help you with?”

She’d paused, just like that, around the word exactly, fair warning that she wanted me to be precise about the next words that came out of my mouth.

I’d taken a deep breath and launched into my story. When I finished, they both sat back in their chairs and watched me with expressions I couldn’t read.

“Ms. Wilson—” Detective Puhl finally said.

“Mrs.,” I said, and she paused, her eyes narrowing at the interruption. I cleared my throat. I didn’t correct about my last name (it’s Wileson), because that detail didn’t feel so important, and even under the fog of red wine, I remembered that they didn’t need to know too much. I’d said my real name when I’d arrived, but she’d misheard me, and that simply did not feel like my fault.

The fact that I was married, though—that part was critical, since it was both the reason I was here in the first place and proof that I wasn’t some crazed, tipsy fan who made a habit of calling in false tips to the police.

I was married, and I loved my husband.