He rolls his head to look at me. “I did not kill him, Millie. You know that, yes?”
I am all the way at the other end of the sofa, and I could scoot down to be closer to the armchair, but I don’t do it. “I know.”
“I cut my hand,” he says. “It was bleeding.”
“Right. That’s what you said.”
“And,” he adds, “I was not cheating with Suzette.”
“Okay,” I say.
The police are already suspicious of him based on what Janice told them. They don’t even know the things I know. The blood on his hands. The way he snuck out the other night and returned smelling of Suzette’s perfume.
He has given me explanations for all those things, none of which I believe. I won’t repeat any of it to the police. But that doesn’t mean I can forget it happened.
“Please, Millie.” His voice breaks. “I need you to believe me. Is important. I did not do this.”
“Okay,” I say. “I believe you.”
“You swear?”
“I swear,” I say softly.
See? I can lie just as well as he can.
FORTY-FIVE
We are woken up the next morning to the sound of Enzo’s phone ringing.
I rub my eyes as he fumbles around to find it on the nightstand. I hear his sleepy, “Hello?” And then his body goes rigid.
“Yes,” he says into the receiver. “I can come to the station. I just… I have to reschedule some things, and… Yes, she can come too. We just need to get the kids off to school, but… Yes, okay. I’ll be there.” Enzo hangs up the phone, looking about as wide awake as I have ever seen him at this hour of the day. “That is Detective Willard,” he says. “He wants us both to come to the station. To talk.”
And now I am equally awake. “Did he say anything else?”
“No. That is all.”
Again, I know from experience that asking us to come to the station isn’t a good thing. He wants to make sure whatever we say is on the record.
I wonder if they found out anything else.
“I think,” I say, “that we should call Ramirez.”
Enzo sighs. “I do not want to bother him. And he is retired, no?”
“He said he was retiring last time we talked, but I bet he didn’t.”
He hesitates for only a second. “Okay. Call him.”
Enzo and I don’t have a ton of close friends, but one of our closest is Benito Ramirez, a detective with the NYPD. I met him during a dark time in my life, when I was accused of something terrible that I hadn’t done, and he went a long way to make sure that all the charges were completely dropped. We have become good friends since then, and we have helped each other out when we can. When Ada was born, we asked him to be her godfather. He’s the biggest workaholic I know—even worse than Enzo—but we’ve spent a lot of time together over the years, and he’s always had presents at the holidays and birthdays for his godchildren.
Also, he’s the only person who might be happy to hear from me at this hour of the morning.
I select Ramirez’s name from my list of contacts. Enzo keeps his dark eyes on me as I place the call. It rings twice, and then the detective’s familiar gravelly voice fills my ear.
“Millie?” he says, sounding as wide awake as I am. “Is that you, Millie Calloway?”
He’s the only person who still calls me by my maiden name, even though I have been Accardi for over a decade. “Yes, it is.”
