Chapter 18 #2
He stands abruptly, the chair scraping against the linoleum with the effect of fingernails on a chalkboard. “I’ll be right back.”
The door closes with a soft click that sounds like a gunshot in the silence.
Ten minutes pass. Nothing.
While Richard is the last person I’d want to bring into this, if this goes long I may need him to pick up Stella. Trish mentioned that Jane, her daughter, has piano lessons at five.
Me to Dick: Are you busy?
The phone rings.
Me to Dick: I can’t talk. I’m at the police station. Answering questions. But they’ve left me in a room. Stella is at Jane’s house. I need to pick her up no later than 4:45. If this runs long, can you pick her up?
Dick: I’ll get her. Send me the address. I vaguely remember the house.
Me to Dick: Thank you.
While Richard and I haven’t always seen eye to eye—obviously—I have to give credit where it’s due. He’s a good father and while he has an important job as a partner at a corporate law firm, he always prioritizes our daughter.
Of course, I hate to turn to him for help.
After sending Richard the address, I catch my reflection in the two-way mirror and run my fingers through my hair.
It’s obvious, the detective is playing a game. Attempting to frazzle me. But I have nothing consequential to the case to hide.
Of course, I was the one to find Matthew. They may not believe me when I say that I wasn’t drinking coffee with him. Maybe I should get a lawyer. If they don’t have a suspect, the last person to see him alive could very well be a prime suspect.
I sit in the chair and wait.
No, I’ll give them thirty minutes. At that point if he hasn’t returned, it’s rude and since they haven’t pressed charges, I’m free to leave.
Twenty-five minutes pass. Footsteps pass in the hallway outside in a regular pat-a-pat-pat. None slow near my door. I check my wrist, pointedly noting the time, just in case someone is on the other side of that mirror.
My mouth is dry and I wish I’d asked for water.
Five more minutes and I’m walking out.
Footsteps sound outside, then slow.
Finally.
Thirty-seven minutes.
He left me in here for thirty-seven minutes.
Thirty-seven minutes of fluorescent flicker, of my own breathing, of the faint murmur of voices beyond the mirror. My phone sits face-down on the table.
Three missed calls from Christine. One from Robert. None from Noah—but he won’t call. He’ll wait. He’ll be ready if I need him.
When the door finally opens, it’s not Lassiter who enters first.
It’s Richard.
My ex-husband stands in the doorway like an avenging angel in a Tom Ford suit, his face carved from granite. Behind him, Lassiter looks almost amused.
“Detective, I’d like a word with my client.”
“Your client?” Lassiter’s eyebrow arches. “Interesting choice of words, Mr. Whitmore.”
“Richard…” My gaze cuts to the detective and I push up from the chair. “I needed you to pick up Stella, not come here.”
“Jessica is picking her up. I needed to be here.”
“But you’re not my lawyer.”
Detective Lassiter looks to Richard. “Is that true?”
“She’s my ex-wife, if you prefer accuracy. Either way, this interview is over unless you’re charging her with something.”
The testosterone in the room is suffocating. These two men, circling each other with me here like a prize neither actually wants.
“Richard,” I start, but he cuts me off with a look I remember from our marriage—the one that says let me handle this.
“Actually,” Lassiter says, settling back into a chair as if Richard’s presence changes nothing, “Mr. Whitmore’s arrival is fortuitous. You’re an attorney, aren’t you, sir? Corporate law, if I’m not mistaken?”
“Your point?”
“My point is that your ex-wife has been less than forthcoming about her relationship with the victim, and I’m wondering if that’s something you were aware of. During your marriage, for instance.”
The room crystallizes into perfect, terrible silence.
Richard’s jaw ticks once. His tell. He looks at me, and in that look is a question I can’t answer here, can’t answer now, maybe can’t answer ever.
“My ex-wife’s past professional relationships are not relevant to—”
“Professional.” Lassiter tastes that word too. He’s collecting them like evidence. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
My phone buzzes on the table. All three of us look at it.
“Go ahead,” Lassiter says. “Could be important.”
I flip it over. A text from Jessica, with a photo attached. Stella in the back seat of a car, but something’s wrong with the picture. The angle, maybe. Or maybe it’s the perfect cut of Jessica’s face, like she’s holding a selfie stick and using a filter.
Jessica, Richard’s girlfriend: Picked up Stella as Richard requested! Taking the scenic route home. She asked for ice cream. Smart girl.
My blood turns to ice water in my veins.
“Problem?” Lassiter asks.
“I need to go.” I stand, and the room tilts slightly. When did I last eat? When did I last breathe properly? “My daughter—”
“We’re not quite finished here, Ms. Morgan.”
“Are you charging her?” Richard’s voice cuts through the fog of my panic.
Lassiter’s pen clicks once. “Not yet.”
The word “yet” follows us out of the room, down the hallway, past the cluttered desks and curious stares, out into the afternoon light that feels too bright, too brisk, too normal for what’s just happened.
In the parking lot, Richard grabs my arm. “How long?”
“Richard—”
“How long were you sleeping with Matthew Delacroix?” His voice is low, controlled, deadly. “During our marriage. How. Long.” It’s not a question. It’s a confirmation.
“I need to get Stella—”
“Jessica has her. She’s safe.” His grip tightens slightly. “Answer the question, Alicia.”
My phone buzzes again.
Noah Bennett: On my way. Are you okay?
I look at Richard’s face—the anger, the betrayal, the protective instinct still fighting through all of it.
Then I look at the precinct behind me, where Lassiter is probably already building his case.
And finally at my phone, where Noah’s message waits for an answer.
I don’t know how to respond to any of them.
My watch catches the light. 4:44.
Angel numbers. Protection. Guidance. A sign that you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.
But standing outside a police precinct with my ex-husband’s hand on my arm and a detective’s yet still echoing in my ears, “exactly where I’m supposed to be” feels less like reassurance and more like a reckoning.
Everything is about to come out.
I’m not sure I’m ready.