I feel sick. I literally feel like I’m going to throw up all over this nice, clean table in front of me. She thinks I’m a murderer. All the police think I did this. And so will everyone else in the world.

“I want to speak to a lawyer,” I say.

_____

It’s nearly midnight when I get out of the police station. They haven’t arrested me, which I’m taking as a good sign. They must not have enough evidence, if that’s the case. And maybe that’s why they were pushing so hard to get me to confess. After Sweeney, another officer came in to talk to me, then a third after that. But I kept my mouth shut. I wasn’t saying one damn word without a lawyer.

An officer leads me into the waiting room in the station, where there are two long rows of plastic uncomfortable-looking chairs. I’d imagine during the days that the chairs would be mostly filled, but right now, there are only a few people there, including one guy who looks like he’s passed out drunk. In the middle of the second row, I see a familiar figure, slumped forward, his head in his hands.

Sam.

“Mr. Adler?” the officer calls out. “Here she is.”

He lifts his head from his hands. There are purple circles under his eyes like the ones I had this morning. He doesn’t smile when he sees me. He doesn’t even look at me—not really. He struggles to his feet, fumbling with his jacket.

“I parked down the block,” he says in a hoarse voice.

“Okay,” I mumble.

I follow him wordlessly to his Highlander. I have no idea what they told him exactly, but by his reaction, it’s clear he’s heard a lot of the details. I wonder if they questioned him. If they did, I wonder what he told them.

My wife has a drug problem. I tried to get her help, but she’s refusing to admit she has a problem. She hated her boss and probably killed her.

We don’t say another word to each other on the entire walk to the car. When we get inside, I expect Sam to start up the engine, but instead, he drops his head against the headrest, his eyes glassy.

“Sam,” I say.

He rubs his face with his hands. “What?”

I don’t know what I want to say. I want to ask him if he thinks I killed Denise, but I’m afraid of the answer to that question. So instead, I say, “Did the police question you?”

He shakes his head no. “They just told me what happened. They wanted to question me, but I told them no. I’m not talking to anyone without a lawyer and I wish you hadn’t either.”

“Yeah,” I breathe. “I didn’t realize how bad it was till I was in there.”