“Officer Murray is going to join us,” Fuller said.
“Hi,” I said.
“Nice to meet you,” said Murray, and I felt my whole body relax: He doesn’t know her. The emotion must have shown on my face because the younger cop shook his head, chagrined. “I mean, not nice; I didn’t intend—”
“Never mind, Officer,” Fuller said. He pointed, and we filed into a room that seemed designed to make people want to tell the cops what they wanted to hear, just so they could leave. It was bare and much too bright, with a smeary window that looked out on the hallway. The only furniture was a metal table and chairs, and there was a camera mounted high in one corner. Adrienne’s voice piped up in my head again: Nobody looks good from that angle.
I shuddered.
“All right, Mrs. Richards,” Fuller said, and sat down in one of the chairs. Murray, either very polite or just pretending to be, pulled out a chair across the table from Fuller and motioned to me to sit. I did.
Fuller smiled. He had nice teeth; it was a shame about the horrible beard.
“You are absolutely free to go,” he said, and I thought of Geller’s instructions. This was the moment I’d been waiting for. He said it. I can leave. But could I stand up now, when I’d only just sat down? Would Adrienne, traumatized and terrified and waiting to find out that her husband was dead, be so eager to go back to the empty house where she’d just shot her lover? I was sure she wouldn’t. Not now. Not yet.
“Okay,” he said. “I know it’s late and we all want to go home, so we’ll try to make this quick. But it’ll be best for everyone if we can get your side of the story right away, while it’s still fresh.”
“It was self-defense,” I said, again. This was all I was supposed to say, but both men watched me, waiting for more, and the silence stretched long and uncomfortable. It was self-defense; what else was there? I swallowed hard, clutching my own crossed arms. Maybe I should ask a question of my own.
“He killed—he said he killed my husband. Have you found him? Have you found Ethan?” I asked.
Fuller and Murray exchanged looks.
“We’re working on that,” Fuller said. “But there’s no reason to necessarily believe, you know—”
“But he said!” I cried, and incredibly, maybe just from sheer exhaustion, I felt my eyes start to well with tears. I sniffled and swiped at them, remembering as I did the way that Adrienne used to press a finger into her lower lid and draw it outward, because rubbing her eye like a normal person would make her mascara smudge. Fuller leaned in.
“Listen, try not to worry about that for right now. We’re going to find your husband. I promise. Let’s back up, okay? Why don’t we get a little background, a little more about you. No pressure. You’re from the South, yeah?”
I sniffled again.
“North Carolina.”
“Good,” Fuller said. “That’s good. Raleigh?”
“No,” I said, and heard Adrienne’s voice. First in my head, and then coming out of my mouth. “West. Near the Blue Ridge Mountains.”
“Country roads, take me home,” Fuller suddenly warbled, in a gruff but surprisingly tuneful voice, then smiled. “Sorry, couldn’t help myself. That’s a nice spot. You get back there much?”
I stared at him. “No.”
He nodded. “Your folks still there?”
“Just my mother.” I paused to think. I knew a good amount about this; Adrienne had been candid with me about her mother’s condition, how she felt about it, how little she cared. But would she talk about that with this man? No. Never. “She’s . . . in a home. Alzheimer’s.”
“You don’t visit?”
I shook my head and sniffled again for good measure. “She’s in pretty bad shape. It would just upset her.”
“Sure, sure,” said Fuller. “So, no other family? How about around here?”
“Just my husband.”
He cocked his head. “You been married long?”
“Ten years.”
“Long time,” he said. “I never made it that far myself. You got any tips?”
I almost answered. The question was so casual, so conversational, that I almost didn’t notice how we were sliding sidelong toward Adrienne’s marriage, Adrienne’s happiness, Adrienne’s relationship with Dwayne—which they knew about, didn’t they? They had to. I glanced from Fuller to Murray, wondering if the other cop might jump in, but he didn’t seem to have any lines. Fuller cleared his throat, opened his mouth to ask another question—and then someone rapped on the window, and he blinked with annoyance. Outside, another man in plain clothes was holding up a hand with the thumb and pinky extended, the universal symbol for phone call.