“I’m too involved to even fathom the possibility of writing about this messy story,” David said, his melodramatic tone fully on. I had to pinch myself not to roll my eyes. Not only was he terribly overacting, he was lying.
“Good,” Detective Moreno said, and I couldn’t believe she’d bought David’s words. I guess not everyone knew him as well as I did. “You’re in enough trouble as is. Let us investigate. It may not look like it when theVoicedecides to write salacious half-fabricated stories”—she pointed toward the newspaper still on the table—“but we have reason to believe that whoever is behind Henry’s death wasn’t simply a reckless driver but someone dangerous. You wouldn’t want to get tangled with them.”
“We certainly wouldn’t,” our lawyer said, but I couldn’t help feeling the detective’s words had been some sort of cautionary advice. Also, did I imagine it, or had she been looking at me when she said those words?
16
Detective Moreno escorted us out of the interrogation room and into the busy corridors of the police station. My dad excused himself to go to the restroom, but before that he gave me and David a stern look.Don’t you dare say anything you shouldn’t while I’m not here.
“In case you remember anything else,” said Detective Moreno, handing me and David cards, “both my office and cell phone numbers are there.”
I checked the card distractedly, learned that Detective Moreno’s first name was Laura, then put the card inside one of the pockets of my jeans, never to see or think about it again. My pockets could have that effect on things; they were like doors to a parallel universe inaccessible to this Elena variant.
“And congrats, by the way,” Detective Moreno added.
“I’m sorry, for what? The honor of being interrogated by the police for a third time in two days, or having finally figured out that we needed a lawyer when we talk to you folks?” I asked.
“I meant how unapologetic you are about this whole thing of yours. You used to date,” she said, gesturing to David and me. “You have a boyfriend,” she directed at me. “Yet you two seem to have such aninterestingrelationship.”
“I guess,” David said, being polite. I don’t think he was particularly fond of the singularities of our situation. And he’d always thoughtinterestingwas the biggest offender in the art of the empty word.
“The thing is, I’m notoriously bad when it comes to this stuff,” Detective Moreno continued, seemingly unaware of my and David’s lack of interest. Was she being so chatty and nice because she was genuinely like that? Was she working on her inner growth and doing a therapy session with us? Or was she trying to get our guards down so we’d confide in her? The daughter of a lawyer in me decided it had to be the third option: She wanted to pretend she was telling us something private so we’d tellhersomething we still hadn’t disclosed to the cops.
“What stuff?” I asked her tentatively. I’d let her talk all she wanted—or needed—but I would listen, not share my own stuff.
“Relationships,” Detective Moreno said in her dry, straightforward tone. “What I’m trying to say is, I’m sorry if we came off as a bit judgmental or reproaching before. We were just doing our jobs.”
“Getting people to talk is not easy,” David said, and I could have stabbed him with my eyes. Did he really need to be so understanding and sympathetic witheveryone?
“I could never judge your arrangement when my love life is a complete mess.” I knew for a fact she was fishing for a candid reaction from us then.
“It’s not like our arrangement isn’t a bit messy,” David started saying, but I interrupted him.
“We didn’t feel judged,” I lied, and before David could add anything else or tried making friends with the officer currently investigating our possible involvement in a murder, I steered him away. We made a rushed exit toward the parking area. I was sure my dad would be able to find us there.
···
We said goodbye to my dad, who had to run home to get changed and then head back to his office. He was in the middle of some contentious negotiations as two of his musician clients were expecting new contracts—and the royalties resulting from that—once the TV sitcom they’d worked on in the nineties hit a streaming service.
David and I got inside my car and saw my dad’s SUV leaving the parking area, but I didn’t start driving. We needed to talk first.
I was trying to phrase an elusive thought that’d been plaguing my mind when my cell phone buzzed inside the rear pocket of my jeans. I grabbed the device out of habit and read the message distractedly.
Fred Appleton
Elena. I just wanted to let you know I’d be honored to work alongside you once again.
Well, I won’t be.
I put the phone back in my pocket. Where was I?
“That conversation with the police was...” David interrupted my thoughts about Fred Appleton and whatever I needed to tell him.
“Weird?” I ventured. We were both looking at the semi-empty parking structure in front of us.
“That doesn’t cover it.”
“Awkward,” I tried again.
