you in for no good reason. We’re the ones who’ve messed up, not you. Wouldn’t it be an interesting story to tell your husband over dinner—how you got dragged into a murder investigation through no fault of your own?”
“No!” Bile rises in my throat. I press my hand over my mouth.
“We’ll do our very best to respect your privacy, Nicki,” says Sergeant Sam. “If you tell us the unedited truth, that will make it easier—for us and for you.” He looks puzzled, as if he doesn’t understand why I’m so distraught. Does that mean the Elmhirst Road policeman hasn’t told him about the first time he met me? If Sam and Waterhouse knew, they would understand my fear, my desperation to get the hellout of here. Would they confront me, or test my commitment to honesty by waiting to see if I volunteered my sordid little secret?
It doesn’t feel little anymore. It feels as if it’s taking over the safe, respectable part of my life. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I remember being certain it never would.
Stupid. Recklessly, inexcusably stupid .
“I don’t think she wants to tell the unedited truth,” Waterhouse says to Sam. He’s spot-on. My commitment to honesty? I don’t have one. I’m committed to only one thing: making my life as happy and fulfilling as possible, and protecting the people I care about, making and keeping them happy too, all of them: Adam, the children; Gavin, until recently; King Edward before him . . .
I can do both . When I’m feeling strong, it doesn’t feel like too much to cope with; I’m confident that I can manage everything and keep everybody in their different compartments. All I need is to get the police off my back; then I’ll be fine. I’ll be able to persuade myself that I’m a fearless optimist, not a negligent idiot.
“You don’t want to confide in us, do you, Nicki?” Waterhouse says. He pulls out a chair and sits down at the table, next to Sergeant Sam. “You’re hiding something, and since it doesn’t involve Damon Blundy or his death, you think it’s got nothing to do with us. If it’s so bad that you can’t bear the thought of telling your husband, why would you be any more willing to tell two strangers? I understand that—so let me give you an incentive. Sergeant Kombothekra and I don’t care what you’ve done if it has nothing to do with our investigation. It’s probably none of our business, but we need to know what it is so that we can satisfy ourselves that it’s unrelated. So . . . what’s the story? What are you withholding?”
Panic rises in my throat. I hear an undignified yelping sound and realize it came from me. How much more self-control am I going to lose before I can leave this room? Thinking about this frightens me more than being suspected of murder. Is the truth going to spill out of me whether I want it to or not, like my endless tears? Waterhouselooks confident. As if he knows he can make me talk. I’m not sure I can hold out when everything about him suggests he knows already, but I have to try.
How can he know? It’s impossible; if PC Sand-Hair had told him, he’d have mentioned it by now .
“Try to stay calm, Nicki,” says Sergeant Sam. “Let me ask you a few simple questions, give you a chance to compose yourself. We need to get some basic details from you.”
Why? I want to scream. We’re not going to be keeping in touch. I’m going to be leaving here very soon, pretending this never happened, and you’re going to forget you ever met me or knew my name .
“How old are you?”
If I had a lawyer here, he or she would know if I had the right to refuse to answer. “Forty-two.”
“Full name?”
“Nicki Clements.”
“No middle name?”
“Yes, one that I hate, which is why I don’t mention it. Do you really need to know my middle name?”
“We always take full names,” Sam says. “Sorry.”
“Jasmine.” It’s a big clue to the kind of daughter my parents wanted: uncomplicated, sweet,
“No!” Bile rises in my throat. I press my hand over my mouth.
“We’ll do our very best to respect your privacy, Nicki,” says Sergeant Sam. “If you tell us the unedited truth, that will make it easier—for us and for you.” He looks puzzled, as if he doesn’t understand why I’m so distraught. Does that mean the Elmhirst Road policeman hasn’t told him about the first time he met me? If Sam and Waterhouse knew, they would understand my fear, my desperation to get the hellout of here. Would they confront me, or test my commitment to honesty by waiting to see if I volunteered my sordid little secret?
It doesn’t feel little anymore. It feels as if it’s taking over the safe, respectable part of my life. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I remember being certain it never would.
Stupid. Recklessly, inexcusably stupid .
“I don’t think she wants to tell the unedited truth,” Waterhouse says to Sam. He’s spot-on. My commitment to honesty? I don’t have one. I’m committed to only one thing: making my life as happy and fulfilling as possible, and protecting the people I care about, making and keeping them happy too, all of them: Adam, the children; Gavin, until recently; King Edward before him . . .
I can do both . When I’m feeling strong, it doesn’t feel like too much to cope with; I’m confident that I can manage everything and keep everybody in their different compartments. All I need is to get the police off my back; then I’ll be fine. I’ll be able to persuade myself that I’m a fearless optimist, not a negligent idiot.
“You don’t want to confide in us, do you, Nicki?” Waterhouse says. He pulls out a chair and sits down at the table, next to Sergeant Sam. “You’re hiding something, and since it doesn’t involve Damon Blundy or his death, you think it’s got nothing to do with us. If it’s so bad that you can’t bear the thought of telling your husband, why would you be any more willing to tell two strangers? I understand that—so let me give you an incentive. Sergeant Kombothekra and I don’t care what you’ve done if it has nothing to do with our investigation. It’s probably none of our business, but we need to know what it is so that we can satisfy ourselves that it’s unrelated. So . . . what’s the story? What are you withholding?”
Panic rises in my throat. I hear an undignified yelping sound and realize it came from me. How much more self-control am I going to lose before I can leave this room? Thinking about this frightens me more than being suspected of murder. Is the truth going to spill out of me whether I want it to or not, like my endless tears? Waterhouselooks confident. As if he knows he can make me talk. I’m not sure I can hold out when everything about him suggests he knows already, but I have to try.
How can he know? It’s impossible; if PC Sand-Hair had told him, he’d have mentioned it by now .
“Try to stay calm, Nicki,” says Sergeant Sam. “Let me ask you a few simple questions, give you a chance to compose yourself. We need to get some basic details from you.”
Why? I want to scream. We’re not going to be keeping in touch. I’m going to be leaving here very soon, pretending this never happened, and you’re going to forget you ever met me or knew my name .
“How old are you?”
If I had a lawyer here, he or she would know if I had the right to refuse to answer. “Forty-two.”
“Full name?”
“Nicki Clements.”
“No middle name?”
“Yes, one that I hate, which is why I don’t mention it. Do you really need to know my middle name?”
“We always take full names,” Sam says. “Sorry.”
“Jasmine.” It’s a big clue to the kind of daughter my parents wanted: uncomplicated, sweet,
Similar Books
