I didn’t have to smile at her, though I did. She smiled back at me, and something passed between us. Wait for me, her eyes said. I’ll meet you in the hall. Whatever passed between us then, I cannot name, but I bet it’s the same thing that passes between spies who recognize each other, who are so grateful to be seen at last by someone who knows the truth behind the disguise.

THE cop is here. The cop is back.

He just barged in when I was in the bathroom, washing dirt off my hands.

Lucky for me, speed has killed off my guilty girl’s lethargy.

I’ve been busy. He has no clue.

I’ve been hiding evidence; I’m no fool. I shoved Justine’s records and books under my mattress. Her dresses are under my pillows. And in the garden, I buried the knife.

Deep down in the dirt, I buried the bloodied blade by the rosebush. My father will never go there for the rest of my life. The roots of roses will be strangled by my weapon: my weed, my bad seed.

I come out of the bathroom. I can’t look him in the eye.

The cop says he has new information. Damaging New Information which Provides the Grounds to Arrest Me.

Could they have caught Justine? No. No, I know they haven’t got her in handcuffs. He’d be gloating. Besides, I know they’ll never find Justine. Look how long it took me.

“What’s the new information?” I say. Then I pull my hair over my eyes.

“Why don’t you just tell me what you did on Friday night?”

Yeah, right.

“Sara, you’re not a bad person. I know you want to cooperate.”

“I was so smashed. I don’t remember anything about Friday night.”

“I would think this incident is something you’d never forget.”

“Think what you want. I drank a whole bottle of Aquavit.”

I was wasted, wasted on white liquor and black beauties.

“I told you before I have a fever. Really, I’m not feeling well. I’m going to faint.”

I walk right by him, head for my bedroom. He may be a cop, but he’s still thirty. He can’t infiltrate a girl’s bedroom.

Lying down in my bed, I can still hear my heart, and my nose has started to bleed. My mouth’s so dry. I wish I had some morphine. Wish I hadn’t flushed away all my speed.

He just struts in. Stands with his legs apart, his hands on his hips, staring at my dresser like he’s dead-set on discovering a girl’s dirty diary.

Soon he’ll say the word. It’s hovering in his eyes; it’s lingering on his lips.

“This is serious,” he says. “This isn’t shoplifting. This is—”