He writes on his pad without looking at me. “Did your mother try to strangle you?” he asks.

“What?” I say. “No.”

But Brewer points at my throat.

“I know it’s hard to admit.” He tries to be soft. “It’s very important,” he says. “It’s recent. And it incited you to take action. In reality, you might not even remember it correctly,” he says, “like the crime itself.”

My hand goes to my neck.

“I do have photographs,” Brewer says, shuffling through a fat folder, “that show the bruise at its worst, which will help. Can you do your best to describe the scene to me?”

“What scene?” I say. All I can do is whisper.

Brewer puts his pen down. “When she tried to strangle you,” he says. His eyes are heavy, with thick, dark lashes.

“She didn’t,” I say.

“Shannon,” Brewer says, and he leans back in his chair, puts his foot up on the opposite knee. “This isn’t the time to defend your mother, okay? It’s time to defend yourself. It actually should be easier than this,” he says. “But you’re making it very difficult.”

The scene, I think, and I remember the glint in Bear’s eyes, the feel of his hand around my windpipe, the flash of stars, of gasping for breath finally, with my whole body in a flush of euphoria.

I trust you.

“I need a minute,” I say, and swallow. I really, really want a cigarette.

“Sure,” Brewer says, and stands up, the chair rattling backward. He stomps around in a circle. “I’ll step out,” he says. “I need to make a call.”

“Can I speak with Detective Fisher?” I ask.

“Without me?” Brewer shoots back.

“Yeah.”

“It’s not smart,” he says. He leans down on the table. The table is a metal mint green with crosshatched lines, like the teachers’ desks in elementary school. I remember standing at those desks, telling one teacher after another that my mother couldn’t make the conference. She’s working, I’d say. Everyone knew she didn’t work. I wouldn’t even tell my mother about the conferences. I didn’t want her to show up high.

“I am your best defense,” Brewer says. “I want you to tell me everything you even think about saying so that I can say it for you, because everything you say will be used against you. Can you understand that?” he says. “You’re not in a position of power here. You’re very vulnerable.”

“I can speak for myself,” I say.

“You can also go to prison,” Brewer says. “For murder. What do you have to tell Fisher that you can’t tell me?” he asks. “Kid, you’re not going to confess, are you?”

“I didn’t do it,” I say. My insides hum, little fried nerve endings vibrating. I wonder if someone, a dog maybe, can hear that sound. The sound of my body singing at a high frequency. Buddy. I miss the feel of his lean.

Brewer stretches his hands behind his head, his elbows out at angles, and he blows a long breath through his lips.