By the time I get to the police station in Manhattan, I am thoroughly freaked out. Detective Ramirez tried to make some conversation during the car ride to the station, but I mostly answered in monosyllables and grunts. Even when he was talking about the weather, I got the feeling he was digging for information and I didn’t want to give him anything.
But when I get to the station, Brock is waiting for me there. He’s wearing his gray suit and that blue tie that makes his eyes look really blue. He smiles when he sees me come into the station with the detective, not looking the slightest bit worried. That’s probably going to change very soon.
“That’s my lawyer over there,” I tell Ramirez. “I’d like to speak with him privately before I get questioned.”
Ramirez nods curtly. “We’ll put you in a room to talk, and when you’re ready, I’d like to ask you my questions.”
He takes me into a small, square room with a plastic table and a few plastic chairs surrounding it. I haven’t been in an interrogation room in years, and the sight of it makes my chest tight. Especially when he sits me in one of the chairs and leaves me all alone in there with the door closed. I thought Brock would be coming in here with me, but he seems to be busy outside.
I wonder what they’re saying to him.
I spend nearly another forty minutes alone in the room, my panic mounting. By the time Brock’s familiar face appears at the door, I almost burst into tears.
“What took so long?” I cry.
Brock has a troubled expression on his face. He seems a little stiff as he settles down into the chair across from me. There’s a crater between his eyebrows.
“Millie,” he says, “I’ve been talking to the detective outside. They’re reluctant to tell me too much, but this isn’t a routine questioning. You are a serious suspect.”
I stare at him. How could that be? Wendy told the police she was the one who shot Douglas. Are they doubting her story? It should be open and shut.
Unless…
“They have a warrant to search your apartment,” he tells me. A warrant? “They have a team there right now.”
They’re searching my apartment? I can’t imagine what they’re looking for. I don’t have anything there that’s at all suspicious. Thankfully, I didn’t get any blood on my clothing last night. I checked.
“Why would they think you killed him?” Brock shakes his head. “It doesn’t make any sense to me.”
This is it. I have to tell him about my past. If he’s going to act as my lawyer, he needs to know. Otherwise, he’s going to look like an idiot. “Listen,” I tell him, “there’s something you need to know about me.”
He raises his eyebrows at me, waiting.
This is so hard. I’m cursing myself for not saying anything sooner, but now that I’m doing this, I remember why I put it off so long. “I sort of have a, you know, a prison record.”
“You have a what?” His jaw looks like it’s about to unhinge. “A prison record? Like you were in prison?”
“Yeah. That’s kind of what a prison record means.”
“For what?”
And now comes the hard part. “It was for murder.”
Brock looks like he’s about two seconds away from keeling over—I hope his heart is okay. “Murder?”
“It was self-defense,” I say, which isn’t entirely true. “This man was attacking my friend and I stopped him. I was a teenager at the time.”
He gives me a look. “You don’t go to prison for self-defense.”
“Some people do.”
He doesn’t look like he believes me, but I’m not going to go into great detail about the boy who was trying to rape my friend. About how I did what I had to do to stop him, even if the prosecutors made it sound like I went too far.
“No wonder you never got your college degree,” he mutters to himself. “I always just told myself you were a late bloomer.”
“I’m sorry.” I lower my eyes. “I should have told you.”
“Gee, you think?”
“I’m sorry,” I say again. “But I was scared if I did, you would look at me like… well, the way you’re looking at me right now.
Brock rakes a hand through his hair. “Jesus, Millie. I just… I knew there was something you didn’t want to tell me about, but I never imagined…”
“Yeah,” I breathe.
“Okay.” He loosens his blue tie a notch. “Okay, you have a prison record. That aside for a moment, why do they think you killed Douglas Garrick?”
I can’t answer that question because I don’t know what Wendy told the police. Even though everything I tell Brock is supposedly confidential, I can’t bring myself to tell him what happened last night. “I have no idea.”
He cocks his head thoughtfully. “You told me last night that you were sick. Did you leave their apartment early?”
“Well, I finished up my work,” I say carefully, knowing the doorman can confirm when I left the apartment. “But since I wasn’t feeling well, I went straight home after. I was already almost home when we talked on the phone. Douglas… he wasn’t even there when I left the apartment.”
“Okay.” Brock rubs his chin. “They’re just giving you a hard time because of your record. We’re going to sort this out.”
I wish I had his confidence.
