“The prosecutor’s hypothesis is that Amina and Christopher Olsen were seeing each other behind your back.”
“What? Seriously?”
“The prosecutor believes that Olsen was unfaithful to you with Amina, and that you found them out, so to speak,” says Blomberg.
The words drum out of him mercilessly. I know this has to do with me, but it sounds so foreign, like something you’d read on Reddit.
“Unfaithful?”
He nods.
“They believe that you discovered them and made up your mind to kill Olsen.”
“Hold on. The prosecutor thinks I killed Chris because he and Amina … what … had sex?”
“Yes.”
“Because I was jealous?”
“Jealous? Betrayed? What do I know?” he says.
“That’s totally fucked up!”
Rage flares in my chest. I have to tell. Let everyone know what really happened.
“Do you care about Amina?” Blomberg asks.
“What the hell are you talking about? I love her!”
“Then you will listen to what I have to say.”
I snort, but force myself to listen.
“For Amina’s sake,” Blomberg says.
I can picture her, the fear in her eyes, her crushed dreams, and it’s like I collapse, like my whole body crumbles. Without Amina, I don’t know where I would be today, who I would be. I will never let her down.
“The prosecutor will likely claim that you went to Olsen’s apartment with the intention of taking his life. But their argument is based on a weak chain of circumstantial evidence,” Blomberg says. “They have the witness testimony from the neighbor who says she saw you outside the building, of course. But that girl is a fragile little thing, not exactly a dream witness.”
He looks straight at his monitor.
“Then they have the shoe print and traces of pepper spray. Strands of hair, flakes of skin, and fibers from clothing. But there is no direct evidence that you were the one who killed Olsen.”
“Okay.”
He turns the screen toward me, but I don’t have the energy to read the tiny letters.
“They have found evidence on Olsen’s computer too, messages and chats. They have a few phone records here and there.”
Blomberg’s voice is calm and stable and makes me feel a little more composed.
“The most important thing right now is your alibi, Stella.”
“Okay?” I say, not sure what he means.
He looks at me again.
“The prosecutor’s timeline doesn’t hold water, because you have an alibi for the time the medical examiner says the murder was committed.”
The words spin in my head.
“I have an alibi?”
That seems unlikely.
“According to the ME’s report, Olsen died sometime between one and three in the morning.”
I still don’t get it.
“You were already home then, Stella.”
“I was? No…”
“Your dad looked at the clock. He is one hundred percent sure that you came home at quarter to twelve that night.”
Dad? Quarter to twelve?
My basic understanding of time is out of whack. I can’t get a handle on it.
“That can’t be right,” I say.
“Of course it is. If your dad says he’s sure, then it is definitely right.”
I hardly hear what Blomberg says after that.
I’m starting to understand what is going on.
“Surely you don’t think your dad would lie?”
76
On the second-to-last Friday in August I turned eighteen. Dad was the one who chose the restaurant. Italian, of course. He’s obsessed with Italian food and anything that has even the slightest thing to do with that goddamn spaghetti nation, and he takes for granted that Mom and I feel the same way.
All those vacations in Italy. Honestly: bruschetta and pasta, birra grande and vino rosso, and all those flirty, greasy-haired waiters with their fucking “Ciao, bella”？ Gag me.
In other words, I didn’t exactly have high hopes for my birthday dinner, but Mom and Dad had been nagging me about it all summer and considering the incident with the car, I didn’t want to disappoint them too much.
The evening began on a low note. The restaurant had managed to book us for the wrong day, or maybe it was Dad’s fault; I don’t know. Then he didn’t want to let me order wine.
“I’m turning eighteen,” I said. “The law is on my side.”
“The law is not perfect,” Dad said.
At least he was smiling.