The Housewife

Prologue

“I’ve been underestimated my whole life,” I say.

Detective Bates is hunched over his paperwork, his shoulders rounded like a bear. He’s far too big for the chair. I don’t know why they don’t give him a special one. Even the pen looks tiny in his hand.

“You have, have you?”

My sister used to say, Sarcasm is when someone says something but they mean the opposite, usually to make fun of you, but in a jokey way.

Is Detective Bates being sarcastic? Probably.

I am seated at a table that’s been bolted to the floor in a nondescript interview room with no windows.

The only sound, other than the scratching of Detective Bates’s pen, is the fluorescent tube buzzing above my head.

I’m not in handcuffs, but you get the sense there could be a “yet” after that statement.

Also, I have a considerable amount of blood on me, and my Max Mara shirt is sticking to my skin.

I tug at it. It’s not my blood, so there’s that, but still.

The secret with blood is speed. You have to soak the fabric in cold water as soon as possible so the stain doesn’t set.

“Can I go home now?”

Detective Bates looks up sharply. “Your house is a crime scene, Mrs. Davies.”

I nod and use two fingers to dab at the corners of my eyes.

He stares at me for a moment. “My apologies.” He reaches for a box of tissues and slides it over to me. I pull one out.

“Thank you.”

“My colleague will be back any minute and we can restart the interview. I apologize for the delay.”

“I understand. It’s no problem,” I say, folding the tissue and gently pressing it under one eye, then the other.

Detective Bates resumes writing his report; a clock on the wall ticks by.

There’s a bit of old Scotch tape stuck to the table, brittle and yellow with age. I peel one corner up with my fingernail. It breaks off, leaving a sticky smudge behind.

“What do you clean the table with?”

Again, that odd look. “I don’t know. I don’t do the cleaning.”

“Who does?”

“That’d be the cleaners.”

“Tell them to soak a cloth in white vinegar and leave it on for a few minutes. It will break down the stickiness. And if that doesn’t work, mix a spoonful of baking soda with a bit of water to form a paste and gently scrub it with a sponge.”

“I’ll be sure to pass it on.” He turns the page in front of him. “What’s your occupation, Mrs. Davies?”

I lean forward to peer down at the form. Make sure he gets it right.

“Housewife.”