Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Alicia
Christine answers on the third ring. “Morning, lady!”
She’s chipper and happy, and the flutters in my stomach won’t quit. Hyperawareness, energy, joy—my body doing its best to override reason.
“Are you available for drinks after work?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Why would you assume—”
“You never call in the morning. You’re a morning news person. So spill.”
I catch a glimpse of the black Chevy SUV three cars back, and heat flushes my skin.
“I may have hooked up with someone.”
A pause. “Ho-hum or hall-of-fame?”
Despite everything, I smile. “Definitely not ho-hum.”
“Age?”
“Thirty-one.”
“The bodyguard!” Her delight is audible. “I don’t see the problem.”
“Ten years, Christine. He’s barely—”
“Are you looking for a husband?”
“No.”
“Then have fun! When can I meet him?”
“Saturday brunch? Stella has a sleepover Friday.”
“Perfect. And Alicia? Breathe. You deserve this.”
The call ends as I pull into the office parking lot. Will I introduce Noah to Christine? Maybe. It’s a big step—introducing him to friends. And what if this becomes something that isn’t temporary? What would Christine think then?
I glance in the rearview, spotting Noah’s car, and despite the anxiety coiled in my chest, I’m smiling.
Until I see Gabriel waiting outside like a sentinel, and the smile dies.
I check the ground, looking for cigarette butts to see if he’s been outside smoking, but no, it appears he’s outside awaiting the official handoff.
I’m a baton. And I’m developing a teen-like crush on one of the runners, evident by the fluttering in my belly as I watch Noah’s SUV pull into traffic after dutifully following me to the office.
Thankfully, once I’m through the door, my client problems take over my own.
Their mistakes become my coaching opportunities.
Denial, sometimes a powerful resource, is often my clients’ worst enemy.
It makes for an interesting day, and one that makes me feel more like a therapist than a crisis management expert.
My two o’clock meeting runs fifteen minutes over, and as soon as the call ends, I’m up and gathering my work to head to the school to pick up Stella. There’s a rap on the door, and I call, “Come in.”
Robert, my assistant, appears in the doorway. Something’s off—his shoulders are too rigid, his usual easy smile replaced with careful neutrality. “I know, I’m running late,” I say, already gathering my things.
“There’s a detective here to see you.” His voice is quieter than usual. “I told him you need to pick up Stella, but he said it’s important.”
A detective? I peer past Robert and spot the detective waiting a couple of feet away, standing near, likely so he can hear what Robert says to me.
“It’s okay, Robert. I’m sure this has to do with the incident at the conference.”
Robert nods and backs away, returning to his desk in the lobby.
“Detective,” I say, hand outstretched. I squint to read the name that’s pinned to his shirt. He’s a Black man, about Noah’s height, but broader in both his shoulders and midsection.
“Ms. Morgan. Thank you for seeing me. I’m Detective Lassiter.”
“We didn’t meet before.”
“No, I’m in the homicide unit,” he says, his tone deliberately friendly. “I was hoping you could come down to the precinct to answer some questions.”
“I…” I swivel, looking at my desk and my tote resting in my chair. “I need to pick up my daughter. Perhaps I could schedule a time—”
“We’d appreciate your cooperation. As you can imagine, this is a high-profile case and we’d like to wrap it up as quickly as possible.”
“Right.” I nod, thinking through my options. They did say they might have more questions. I’ve coached plenty of clients that it’s best to avoid the appearance of guilt. And, as inconvenient as this is, I have nothing to hide. “Well, let me see if I can make arrangements.”
I pick up my cell and call Trish, one of Stella’s friends’ moms, and a friend. She quickly agrees to pick up Stella from school.
“This shouldn’t take long. Tell Stella I’ll be there soon. I haven’t forgotten that we’re going shopping.”
My gaze connects with Detective Lassiter’s and he offers a slight smile. At least, I interpret it as a smile.
Gabriel appears by the reception desk, expression tight. “I’ll call Noah. Want me to—”
“I’ll be fine. It’s just questions.”
The detective’s voice drifts through my office. “An incident. Is that what you call murder?”
I inhale deeply, aware of the slight tremor running through my arms and of my chilled fingers. “That’s probably not the best description,” I admit.
“Shall we?”
I get my tote bag and I’m about to ask if I need a lawyer, but then I remember the advice I tell my clients, and shelve the idea. I have nothing to hide.
“I’m not sure what I can say that I haven’t already shared, but I’m happy to answer your questions.”
He offers to drive but I insist on driving myself. If he’d insisted on driving me, I would have called a lawyer.
At the station, he directs me through a waiting room filled with citizens and police officers, up to a second floor, then down a hall.
The precinct’s second floor smells like burnt coffee and bad decisions.
Detective Lassiter leads me past a bullpen of cluttered desks, each one a monument to unsolved cases and overtime hours.
Officers glance up as we pass—some with curiosity, others with the blank stare of those who’ve seen too many “persons of interest” to care.
Room 204. He holds the door, gesturing me inside with practiced courtesy that doesn’t reach his eyes.
The interrogation room is exactly what Hollywood gets wrong: no dramatic spotlight, no good-cop-bad-cop theater.
Just a beige box with a scarred metal table, three chairs that have seen better decades, and a two-way mirror that reflects my pale face back at me.
The fluorescent light above flickers every seventeen seconds.
I count to keep my mind occupied, to stop myself from filling the silence with nervous words—the first mistake I counsel my clients not to make.
“Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?” Lassiter asks, settling into his chair with the ease of someone who’s spent thousands of hours in this exact position. His notepad lies closed between us. No pen yet. That’s intentional.
“No, thank you. I really need to pick up my daughter soon.”
“Right, right. Stella, isn’t it? Twelve years old?” He knows her name. Of course he does. “Must be tough, juggling single motherhood with running Morgan & Company. High-profile clients, crisis management—that’s pressure.”
Baseline questions. He’s establishing rapport while cataloging my normal behavioral patterns—how I sit when relaxed, my natural speech cadence, where my eyes go when I’m thinking versus lying. I’ve coached clients through this.
“It has its moments,” I say, keeping my tone neutral.
“I’ll try to keep this brief.” He stands, and I think he’s leaving already, but no—he’s adjusting the wall vent to direct the air flow. The room was already cold. Now it’s arctic. Another tactic: physical discomfort breaks down resistance.
He sits back down, finally pulling out a pen. It’s a cheap Bic, the kind that clicks. He clicks it once. Twice. Three times. The sound drills into my temple where a headache threatens to form.
He settles back, clicking his pen. “You understand this is being recorded?” He gestures to the camera. “You’re free to leave. Free to have an attorney. Want one?”
Here’s the trap. Say yes, and I look guilty. Say no, and I’m vulnerable. I think of Noah getting the call from Gabriel, realizing he’s probably worried. I think of Stella at school, expecting me to pick her up for shopping. I think of Matthew Delacroix, unconscious on that conference room floor.
“Not at this time.”
Click. Click. Click goes his pen.
“Good. That’s good, Ms. Morgan. Shows you want to help.” He opens his notepad finally, makes a show of writing something down. “Let’s start with something easy. How long have you been in the PR business?”
“Twenty years, give or take.”
“And you worked at Bright Communications before starting your own firm?”
My spine stiffens slightly. He’s done his homework. “Yes. About thirteen years ago.”
“That’s where you met Matthew Delacroix.”
Not a question. A statement. The air in the room shifts.
“We worked there at the same time, yes.”
“Same time.” He tastes the words like wine. “Same accounts?”
“Occasionally.”
He taps a stapled packet—news clippings highlighted in neon.
“The Henderson merger. The Trawley scandal. The—what was it—oh yes, the Fairmont Hotels crisis.” He lists them while barely glancing at the pages. He’s memorized this. “Pretty intense situations. Must have spent a lot of late nights at the office.”
The metallic taste of anxiety floods my mouth. He knows. Or he’s fishing. I can’t tell which is worse.
“It’s a demanding industry.”
“Is that why Mr. Delacroix joined your board of advisors when you started Morgan & Company? Because of those...demanding times you shared?”
I force my hands to stay flat on my thighs, not to fidget, not to touch my watch—my tell, Richard always called it. “He had valuable experience. Several former colleagues served as advisors.”
“Several.” Click. Click. Click. “But Matthew Delacroix was special, wasn’t he? He stayed on for—what—five years?”
“Three.”
“Three.” He makes a note, but I catch his slight smile. He knew the real answer. Testing me. “And when did you last speak to Mr. Delacroix?”
This is where it gets treacherous. Lie, and they probably have phone records, emails, something. Tell the truth, and—
“I hadn’t spoken to him in approximately six years.”
“Approximately.” The word hangs between us like a blade. “So you’re saying that when you walked into that conference, you hadn’t seen or spoken to Delacroix in six years?”
“We hadn’t spoken on the phone in six years. Our paths had crossed at industry events but we hadn’t spoken—that I recall.”